


Neighborly

by Spooks, thesuninside



Series: Neighborly [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Listen just go with it okay, Weechesters, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 06:19:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13184145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spooks/pseuds/Spooks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesuninside/pseuds/thesuninside
Summary: There are two kids living next door.  They gotta be surviving off ramen noodles by now, and Christ, but it's none of Frank's business.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We started passing this one back and forth before the first season of Punisher dropped on Netflix, so we adjusted a little about halfway through, tried to realign on the “oh hey, maybe we should post this” edit. This is therefore obviously AU-ish to the way Punisher ends, and quite obviously AU for Supernatural. We’ve not watched Supernatural since somewhere around season six, haha. Probably not done with the universe, but it seemed like a nice place to call this story done.

There are two kids living next door. Boys.  One is seventeen, maybe sixteen; the other one twelve, no older. Both scrawny.  Brown-haired.  Neither of them as dark-haired as Frankie had been.  Their dad had split almost three weeks ago, after dumping a bunch of groceries off.  Frank's seen the older kid come back with more, smaller bags only a few times.  They gotta be living off ramen noodles over there. 

 

Dean, the older one's called. The younger one's Sammy.  Sam.  Frank hears them through the thin walls of the apartment. Sometimes they bicker, but sometimes Dean gets Sammy laughing real hard. 

 

Dean walks Sammy to school every morning and goes to pick him up in the afternoon.  Frank hears Sammy talking about homework while they're in the hall, waiting for Dean to open the door. 

 

Frank has a routine.  He cleans his guns, he listens to the police scanner, he makes a list.  The list is on a yellow Steno pad he keeps by the scanner, on which he writes the addresses and names that warrant further looks.  The apartment is shitty, but it makes a decent base.  It's well outside Murdock's usual radius, and he isn't likely to casually run into Karen, either.  He brought part of the arsenal in slowly, supplemented it with things he took from scum he’s cleaned up.  It's organized and neat and well-kept.   

 

He is cleaning a Desert Eagle when he hears two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs.  One is Dean's—the other is heavier.  Adult. Frank wonders if the dad is back. That'd be good.  Yesterday the kids were arguing about money.  Rent's due. 

 

The door shuts, and Frank doesn't hear anything for a few minutes, but then he _does_ hear, and he gets to his feet calm, casual, and takes the very clean, assembled Desert Eagle with him. 

 

The doors are flimsy.  He kicks it in and takes in what's in front of him in a blink.  It confirms what he'd heard:  man, pants down, the kid bent over the coffee table.   

 

 _Fuck you if you think you ain't using a rubber, pal_ , the kid had yelled, voice high pitched and panicky. 

 

Frank raises the gun and looks along the sight. 

 

"Get your dick in your pants and get the fuck out of here," he tells the scum. 

 

"Who the hell do you think you are—" 

 

"I'm the man with a gun," Frank says, and he feels his own lip curling, knows his anger's coming out, that this is the face scum sees before he ends it. 

 

On the floor, the kid looks pissed off.  Frank wonders how often he's had to do this to take care of his kid brother. 

 

The scum seems convinced by Frank's threat, by his face.  He pulls his pants on and shoves his little dick inside, and tries to walk by Frank without touching him. Frank flips the gun in his hand, uses his arm like a shield to batter him against the wall.  He takes the scum's wallet from his back pocket, empties the forty bucks in cash and throws it at the kid.  The bastard's license, Frank takes for himself. 

 

Then he lets the scum go. For now. 

 

The kid's still on the floor when Frank turns to look at him again, but the money's disappeared. "Pull your pants up," Frank tells him. "I'll be back with a door." 

 

"I had it under control," the kid snaps, red-faced, but hurrying to pull his pants up like Frank said.  Jesus wept, he's got tighty-whities on under his Wal-mart jeans.  His face is red under his freckles, red and hurt.   

 

"Sure," Frank says.  Then he turns and leaves. The apartment is so cheap that the bathrooms and the front doors are the same, except for the deadbolts, but Frank's got tools.  It's the work of minutes to take the door off his bathroom, put it up on the kid's open front door.  Changing out the knobs is easy.   

 

The kid watches him the whole time.  It makes Frank uneasy. He is not used to hero shit.  But like hell he could sit there and do nothing. 

 

"You gonna bring another john back?"  Frank asks the kid once he's tested that the deadbolt works and he's got the chain at the right height.   

 

"You gonna rough 'em up if I do?  You my guardian angel or something?"

 

“Pretty far from that, kid,” Frank says. “Place like this, lucky he didn’t stick you with something else.  Then where would your kid brother be?”

 

That screws the kid’s open mouth shut into a scowl, and he looks off—but not far.  Frank ignores his gaze and instead notices the twitch of his hands, where he’s got his arms folded across his chest, defensive.  Sees the fingertips that seem to stretch towards the pocket knife clipped in his front pocket, the one that had been there when Frank came back with the tools.  Sees the little scars and the rough knuckles on the kid’s hands, and how even though his arms are folded, they’re not locked together.

 

“Okay.”  Time to go.  Frank picks up his shit and leaves, thinking this better be the end of it.  But just in case, before he closes the door on the way out: “Find another way.  Don’t steal it.”

 

“I’m not a fucking _thief._ ” The kid spits the words at him.  “I’m not going to get arrested, and no one’s going to get the drop on me.  You think I didn’t see if that asshole was armed?  Thanks for the door, but I already got a dad.”

 

Frank decides not to ask where the hell that asshole is, because that really is none of Frank’s damned business.  Instead he just closes the door and goes back to his own place.  The kid’s deadbolt snaps shut before Frank even had his own unlocked again.

 

“Thanks for the door,” the kid says.  Angry, grudging, but he says it.

 

Frank heads inside and put his shit away.  He goes back to listening to his scanner, taking notes.  He’s hearing a pattern emerging, somewhere he can go and do a lot of clean up.  He hears Dean leave a little early that afternoon, then come home with Sammy.  Hears the sounds of dinner starting before he gears up, hears the quiet clunk of a pan filling with water, Sammy’s voice rattling off the day.  Strange thing to hear while he straps up.  Abnormal normalcy.

 

Sun’s still setting when Frank slips out the alley door, chill setting in.  His day routine is good, but leaving, getting out, that could not be allowed to develop into routine.  No timing, no pattern.  Someone like Murdock, going out at night, well that’s what happens when you’re some kind of ninja. 

 

Two weeks ago, Frank walked into some bistro yuppie fusion bar wearing a shirt and collar, a polite smile.  He sat down at the bar beside the two embezzling businessmen he was there for.  He heard them brag about—confirm—-their backroom deals.  Heard them harass the waitress, talk about feeling up their interns, and then he followed them outside when they stopped in an alley for a fuckin’ vape. 

 

No stray bullets that way.  Good memory. 

 

Only two days dead when their schemes fell through with no one there to tend them, and the paper said no one knew how long they’d have gone if they’d not been taken out.  Frank knew.  So did the junkie who sold them their meth, kept them going so they’d be able to pull no sick days for ten straight months.  Smart guy, hoping to buy his way out of his own bullet.  But not that smart.

 

This night though.  Frank follows his leads, the notes he took, the maps he reviewed and the routes he made sure he understood, the ways in and out again.  He does what he knows he needs to—But the signs he’d heard, the reports of disturbances, the marks of vandalism that usually marked comings and goings Frank normally followed like a game trail—nothing.  Just the dark and quiet, not even a homeless person huddled up to escape the night. 

 

The mugging he stops on the way back isn’t even worth taking out the mugger over.  Asshole doesn’t have a knife, cries, shakes, pisses himself.  Passes out when Frank gets in his face about who his dealer is.

 

By the time Frank comes back, restless and feeling the hungry hollow of his middle, no light’s coming out from under the next door over, no sound either.  Frank puts his shit away, cleans up, has a protein bar.  Day wasn’t a total waste.

 

Couple days pass, Frank listens, reconfigures.  Some activity gets reported again in the same area, cops walk the block, report nothing back.  Even they seem to notice, think it’s a prank.  Maybe it is, or maybe he just missed it.  Next door, Dean leaves for a few hours every day, then most of a day. 

 

Day after that, Frank goes out too, tac vest on with a jacket over it to hide his gear, too warm for that much cover, but there’s wind.  Shouldn’t be too noticeable.  He’s going to look at the site in the day.  It’s a warehouse, gentrified up to some apartments or some shit, then burned and rotted _before_ the incident.  Construction post-incident gave up.  Lots of plastic blowing around at night, holes in the floors, but solid enough walls.  Skeletons waiting to get filled in.

 

Seemed strange, no one taking it up again.  Then again, maybe that was what was happening. Maybe price is too high.  He might be taking this too simple. 

 

He goes two blocks, three, doubles back, cuts an alley and around, then cuts through another that leads to a mechanic’s by a pier.  Frank knows the owner sometimes chops cars.  Frank’s waiting though, because _sometimes_ means _selection_ , and selection means a connection to someone he needs to meet more than the mechanic. 

 

Then he hears a voice he recognizes, and there’s Dean, wearing coveralls way too big for him, rolled up at the cuffs and explaining that—"Yeah, course I knows how to fit the clutch, which this last guy didn’t do right—Look at this oil seepage, man.  You want me to do it or what?  I can get to it without even removing the tranny.  Won’t take that long.”

 

The other guy, big belly and skeptical look, shrugs.  “Your ass if you screw it up.  Mac won’t keep you on.”

 

“Mac’s going to keep me on,” Dean says, and gets to work.

 

Frank heads on to the site, turning that one over in his head.  Good for the kid, bad if Frank ends up shooting Mac.  How the hell does a kid know how to fit a clutch at that age?  Frank’s not even sure what that means, other than vague ideas of engine schematics and general theory.

 

Maybe Frank’s been wrong, and Dean’s older than he looks.  Frank reminds himself that it’s not his fucking business. 

 

In the day, the site is nothing much to see, once again.  And yet.  His old instincts, which never really shut up anymore, they’re screaming in his ear that he should leave, itching his soles.

 

Sometimes that instinct is to take a second, lay a more careful look over at the step ahead.  Sometimes, it's the feel of something off, the signs that don’t register consciously, but the mind _knows_ anyway: An ambush is coming, get ready.  Frank sniffs the air, shivers in a chill, and turns to duck inside one of the busted doors, still the old warehouse style.  As his eyes adjust to the dim light, he knows he's made the right choice.   

 

He knows he isn't alone.  Either it's a homeless somebody, or somebodies, or he's found something that needs cleaning up, something that, for whatever reason, is not operational in the evening.  The last time he was here, this place _felt_ empty, abandoned. 

 

Frank takes out his most dependable handgun, puts his back to the wall, and creeps along the dirty concrete floor.  The apartment fixtures in the building burned so thoroughly that the warehouse parts are all that are left.  He found a schematic, and though it was simple, he still committed it to memory.  He knows the distance from the door he chose to the pit in the floor that once serviced conveyer belts, and he steps neatly around it—

 

Only his foot comes down on _nothing_ , and he loses his balance, scrambles at the wall to hold himself from falling.  He snaps on the flashlight at the end of his gun to show the pit—but not where he'd expected it. 

 

Somehow, he's become completely disoriented.   

 

Frank turns off the light, puts his back to the wall again, and breathes.  He waits. 

 

The dim, dim light of the warehouse comes back slowly.  Frank waits, patient, unmoving.  He still feels _unalone_ , but if the people in here with him heard his slip and scramble, they've made no moves of their own.   

 

It's so fucking cold, Frank's glad he wore a jacket.  Wished he'd thought to add gloves to the pockets because his fingers around the gun are going numb.

 

There's a creak.  A slight _ching ching_ , the big chain on the door Frank came in through being jostled.

 

Frank turns his attention, focuses. 

 

A flashlight turns on, and after a half second, it's zeroed on Frank. Frank's already pointing his gun— 

 

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," the kid, Dean, says.  "Get out of here, _now_ , you're gonna get us both killed." 

 

There's something different in the kid's tone than back at the apartment, when he'd insisted he had it under control.  He's got a crowbar in his hand and a pack of matches sticking out of his pocket.  Frank thinks, _The kid means business_.

 

And then _something_ grabs Frank, something impossibly strong grabs him around the whole torso in a bear hug, and only his trigger discipline keeps him from shooting the kid.  Frank is lifted and thrown back into the pit he'd barely avoided falling in before.  It's a five foot drop onto concrete, flat onto his back.  It winds him, but he holds on to his gun, despite the cold quaking his bones.

 

Then there’s a weight on his chest, the feeling of legs compressing and squeezing his ribs.  A man, dusty and in black has yanked him down and is crushing him, completely ignoring the gun in favor of pressing as much air out of him as possible—and if Frank weren’t so well trained, he’d be panicking.  He barely manages to get his weapon up—

 

The flashlight snaps on, the beam flashes, stabs _through_ the face above him before the beam of light just _dies—_

 

Frank shoots anyway, the crack of the shot painful and shattering the quiet, right on target.  Right through the forehead of the man. 

 

Frank lets out a huff in shock, the last gasp he had left, and it steams the air.  The man is grinning at him, squeezing harder.  There’s not even a hole where the shot went.  He _hit,_ he _knows_ he hit— 

 

 _Mistake._ The man wheezes out a laugh, and the edges of Frank’s vision start to narrow before he bares his teeth and tries to surge up again—and _fails—_

But just in time to see the kid jump down into the pit and swing the crowbar right at the man’s head.  To see the crowbar not connect.  To see it pass right through, scatter him like he was made of fucking ashes. 

 

The pressure on Frank’s chest disappears in the same instant, and Frank sucks in air like he’s drinking it, tastes soot. 

 

Dean’s eyes are roving in the dark, not bothering with a flashlight.  “Can you get up yet?”

 

What the fuck.  Frank gets up.  “I shot it.”

 

“Must’ve missed,” Dean says.  “Come on, maybe it took off.”

 

Kid wishes he was a better liar, probably.  Not the time. 

 

Frank sucks in another breath, holds it and feels a burn, then measures it out by counts.  “Probably not.”

 

“Whatever, let’s _go,”_ Dean says.  “I can’t boost you and hold the crowbar.”

 

Frank goes, pulling himself up easily, glad to feel the pull of life in his diaphragm, but still hating to holster his weapon, even if it was useless. 

 

Up top, he keeps one knee down at the pit edge, then looks around quick.  More light here, somehow, like the pit’s eating it up.  He braces with one hand, extends the other downward.  “Come on.”

 

Dean looks at him, eyes narrowed a little, head swiveling just a bit left, right.  Then he nods, takes Frank’s wrist and swings the crowbar behind him in a wide arc before hopping up, taking the help in a scramble.  The kid’s light though, and Frank just stands and hauls him the rest of the way up. 

 

Nothing follows him, nothing comes out of the pit, and Franks wonders why he’s surprised by that.  Dean doesn’t actually stop moving and keeps them headed towards the door.  They’re out in the alley, sunlight, and—

 

Something’s off.  He went in during the morning, but—Frank checks his watch, finds it dead.  “What time is it?”

 

Dean hisses.  " _Shit_ ," then takes off at a jog, in the direction of what Frank assumes is Sammy's school.  Frank bites back on an order for the kid to get back and give him intel—but he knows where the kid is going to be in about thirty minutes _anyway_. 

 

Annoyed though, Frank goes to a pawnshop to replace his watch and the burner phone he keeps on him.  He also finds Dean's john from a few days ago on his way home, and leaves the fucker's body in a dumpster.   

 

He can hear Sammy yelling at Dean before he's even at his own door. 

 

"—can't just say you're going to be somewhere and then not, you broke a promise and yeah I walked home with a friend—" 

 

"You don't have friends, Sammy!" 

 

" _I have friends!_ " Sammy yelled back, angry, high-pitched.  Somebody upstairs bangs on the floor, and the kids' volume lowers. 

 

Frank doesn't hear anything else from the boys' apartment.  He tries to imagine what might be going on, but his own children died before teenage angst and moodiness, and he finds himself unable to authentically conjure up what they might be doing.  His ideas of teenagers are informed from his own memories and half-remembered tv shows, pop culture.  He knows his own kids would've gone through things, but Frankie and Lisa are never going to get that chance.   

 

He drinks his soup straight from a thermos, follows it up with a protein mix, and listens to the scanner. Hears about the devil of Hell's Kitchen, out and about, and some kid in Queens giving the cops a hard time by doing their job.  He thinks about going to Queens and following the Spiderman and just shooting the scum he leaves webbed up and helpless.  He's weighing how practical that would be when he hears a quiet knocking at his own door. 

 

It's Dean.  Frank puts his pistol back in its holster.  "Ready to talk about whatever the fuck that was?" 

 

"You're the kind of crazy that'd just go back if I didn't," Dean tells him.  "Let me in." 

 

Frank weighs his options.  Inventories what's currently out and observable.  Decides it's fine.  He opens the door and lets the kid in. Watches the kid's eyes get a little wide taking in the weapons, the ones left out and in easy reach, the stacks of MREs, the tac gear stored neatly. 

 

"Uh," the kid says, and there's something a little gratifying about making the kid speechless.   

 

Frank leans against the kitchen counter.  "You wanted to tell me something." 

 

"You a vigilante or something?"  the kid asks, standing loose. Frank gives him props for that.  Whoever brought the kid up brought him up to have balls. 

 

"Or something," Frank answers.  "What was that, in the warehouse.  I shot it." 

 

"You missed," the kid says, but he isn’t even trying to lie convincingly anymore. 

 

"No," Frank says. "I didn't.  The bullet went through it.  So did your crowbar. But the crowbar hurt it."

 

"It's the iron," the kid admits.   "It was a ghost."

 

He waits for Frank to take that in, which Frank does.  He was never a superstitious guy—enough shit went on in the here and now to worry about the hereafter—but.  The loss of time, the crowbar, the cold—it hadn't been normal. Or natural.  Or good.  The next question was obvious. 

 

"How do we end it?"  Frank asks. 

 

"Salt and burn the remains.  They're in that pit but—I can't get that much accelerant." 

 

"Ah." Frank grins.  "So that's why you've come to visit.  You want me to hook you up with some gasoline." 

 

"Yeah," the kid says, drawing his skinny shoulders back. 

 

"Kid, you got balls," Frank tells him, still grinning.  "Especially if you think you're gonna walk in that neighborhood with your hands full and not get mugged.  What about your kid brother?" 

 

"He's asleep," Dean says. "Or faking it at least, because he's pissed at me."  
  
"He'll get over it," Frank tells him.  He straightens up, crosses the room to open one of the trunks stacked against one wall.  He takes out a big hammer, lays it on the table beside his guns, then reaches for his tac vest.  Unrolling it, the white paint is clear. 

 

The kid takes a step back. 

 

Frank pulls the vest on. "You still want my help?"  he asks. 

 

"Yeah," the kid says with a swallow.   "What'd you do to the guy you—you—" 

 

"Kept from giving you AIDS or a knife in the ribs?"  Frank looks square at him, starts strapping weapons to his back and thighs.  He tucks the hammer into the small of his back, and pulls a jacket on over top of it.  Then, he hands the kid an emergency flare and a zippo, pockets one of each for himself.  "What do you think I did to him, kid?" 

 

The kid licks his lips, looks down.  Looks _guilty_. 

 

"Nuh-uh," Frank says, reaching out to tilt his head up.  If his son had looked like that because some scumbag got what was coming to him, Frank woulda done the same.  "Don't you do that.  He made his choice. He paid the price for it.  No way you were his first. You know that, right?" 

 

The kid's wide green eyes meet Frank's, and he jerks his chin away. His eyes are damp, but credit where it's due—the kid isn't backing off anymore.  "Let's go," the kid says.  "Kill a ghost." 

 

"Sure," Frank says.  "Who you gonna call?" 

 

He waits for Dean to crack a grin, to laugh a little, before laughing himself, just quietly, and leading the kid out of the apartment, and out the alley exit.

 

It’s full dark by now, but that’s not a bother.  Dean keeps up just fine, doesn’t question the route they take, and when Frank checks their six, a couple times he catches the kid’s head already turning to do the same, like he’s been trained.  Their route bypasses the alley next to Mac’s garage, and that reminds Franks—

 

“You on your break, or were you off when you came by?”

 

“Huh?” Dean glances over, then follows Franks nod in the direction of Mac’s.  “Oh, I was off.  I come in for long morning shifts.  Works out.”

 

“Good,” Frank tells him.  Better he thinks it’s—

 

“I did see you pass by earlier, just didn’t see you come back.  I _didn’t_ think you were going to this haunted ass warehouse.  Did you think it was some kind of drug dealer’s place or something?” Dean keeps his voice down, speaking with is head turned a little down too, so it doesn’t echo.

 

Again, like he’s been trained.  He’s a fucking kid.  Something smells, and it’s not the dumpster full of cat shit they’re passing by. 

 

“Patterns tend to emerge,” Frank offers.  “You showed up with iron.  So if you weren’t there for me, were you just there for _it_?”

 

“I was checking it out to see what I’d need, if I’d need anything.  But there you were, like two hours later.  Pretty obvious what was going on, then shit went down, then it was _really_ obvious.”  Dean says.

 

“If you know what to look for.” Frank adds, for him.

 

Dean looks up at him, seeming to catch himself, then nods like he’s deciding something.  “Yeah.”

 

They stop at the mouth of their alley, and this time of night, even though it’s not that late, it feels bleak and deep and miles away from earlier today.  The black windows seem darker than they did the night before, and the street doesn’t even have cars parked on it.  Streetlights are even half out.  Jesus, like it’s ready and waiting.

 

Frank is not entirely sure he’s ready to head back in, but then remembers the soot-colored grin on the thing’s ugly face, and naw.  He’s ready.

 

“How many times you done this?” Frank asks.

 

Dean puffs out an annoyed, huffy sigh.  Pure teenager.  “More times than you.”

 

“No doubt about it,” Frank agrees.  Keeps his tone mild.  “You’re the veteran here.  Doesn’t seem like a hobby, as much as a vocation.”

 

“What’s a vocation?” Dean asks.  He shuffles foot to foot.

 

“A calling,” Frank says.

 

The kid steadies himself and looks square at Frank.  “That what you call what you do?”

 

“I call what I do necessary.” Frank looks right back, calm.

 

“Sounds like the same thing.” Dean keeps his gaze, then nods after a second, towards the warehouse. “If your light dies, it’s close.  Priority is burn the remains, that’ll cut its tie to here.  Iron breaks it up if it tries to get cute.  Don’t have to even swing hard.  Salt can be a barrier, but what’s the point when we just burn the whole pit?”

 

“You sure it’s the pit?”

 

“Yeah, looked it up.  Accident when they were renovating the place into apartments.  He was crushed around the ribs, sort of splattered down there.  I mean, unless he got on the conveyer belt, then we’re just S-O-L, cause who knows where that went.” Dean shrugs.  “It might go for you again.  You fit the uh, victim profile more than me.”

 

Frank goes cold, feels the weight of his tac vest.  “It kills?”

 

“Patterns, right?  If you look at the construction history, dark-haired men, thirties or a little older, authority figures.  A foreman, engineer, drafter.  It was spread out, but.  Last month, a surveyor bought it.”  Dean says this, looking at the warehouse, and then he looks at Frank like he’s not sure he should’ve said it.

 

Frank isn’t sure either.  He’s having a little trouble.  Earlier, this was a fuckin’ ghost that tried to kill him.  Now it’s ghost that’s also some murdering scum.  “Why the hell would it do that?”

 

“They get stuck.  This—it’s not the whole guy.  Maybe he blames his old boss or whatever.  The burning _unsticks_ what’s left.  You ready?”  Dean asks.  The kid’s hand is twitching, flexing on the crowbar he’s got in hand, since they’d been keeping mostly to dark alleys and the kid’s not an idiot. 

 

Frank hefts the gas can, and it’s an easy carry.  “Good to know what I’m getting into.”  Then he steps forward, takes point.

 

Dean huffs, but falls in, used to covering somebody's six.  His dad's?  Frank's starting to wonder, to think so.  He'd have words for somebody that goes off and leaves his kids like this, and not nice ones.  If Lisa and Frankie were alive . . . 

 

But they aren't.  And now Frank's easing into the dark warehouse, hammer in his hand.  The cold seeps in immediately.  The blackness is profound.  Frank eases towards the pit, mindful of how he'd lost his way before.  His light flickers out a second before the attack. 

 

It's enough time to get his hammer ready.  It's big iron head sweeps through the air in front of him, but doesn't make contact. Behind him, he hears Dean's crowbar swing—and then Dean shouts, goes flying.  Frank throws down one of the emergency flares; the only advantage in the dark goes to the ghost, and fuck that.   

 

He sees Dean getting dragged towards the pit. 

 

Frank roars, seeing red, and goes with his rage.  He throws himself after the scumbag ghost, brings the hammer down like he was gonna hammer in his skull, and the ghost vanishes. Making contact with the hammer is a bit like brushing against a live wire, in a sense. It doesn't shock, but he definitely feels a tingle go up his arm.  He hauls Dean to his feet with one hand, shoves the gas can in his hands. 

 

"Get down there and light it up," he tells the kid, putting authority in his voice. 

 

The kid knows what he's doing.  Jerks his head once— "Yes, sir!" He hops down, unquestioning, and starts pouring. The scent of gasoline rises rank, and there's splashing as the kid throws it around liberally.  Frank feels the cold on the back of his neck and swings the hammer backwards, catching _something_. He yells at the kid, intentionally rough—

 

"Don't you fucking mess up!  You hear me!  You need to work harder, boy!" 

 

"Yes, sir!"  The kid calls up, and there's a bit of an amused note in his voice, lets Frank know that the kid knows he's playing along. 

 

Ghosts aren't that smart.  The thing rushes at him, visible but translucent in the red flicker of the emergency flare, roaring, its crushed ribcage obscene, like a man Frank'd run over with a truck once.  His lip curls in a sneer.  The living fucker, the guy who died in the pit, might not've had it coming, but this _part_ of him does, and Frank swipes with his hammer—

 

Just in time to be dodged.  Something hits him hard, knocks him into the pit, into a puddle of gasoline.  Frank grimaces, pushes up to his hands and knees—

 

And that weight settles on him again, starts to crush him—

 

The kid yells, "Back off scumbag!"  There's a whoosh, the crowbar flying over him, dissipating the ghost.  Frank hurls himself to his feet, sucking in air, and bodily throws Dean out of the pit.  He jumps up after.  His feet have barely made it when Dean's dropping the lit zippo down, into the pit, and the whole thing goes up in flames.   

 

There's a wail, and the cold vanishes _suddenly_ , giving way to a muggy night. 

 

Frank sits down, stinking, looks at the flaming pit.

 

Dean crouches beside him, after a moment, and grins.  Holds out one hand to the heat, fingers splayed.  “Should die out soon.  Nothing down there to burn but the gas, right?”  It’s not really a question.

 

Frank grunts.  “It’ll last long enough to draw attention.”  In the backwash of the orange flickers, he can see some of the gas definitely splashed the kid, all over really.  Frank hauls up to his feet, and scoots them both back farther from the flames with a hand on Dean’s shoulder.  “Best be going, if the job’s done.”

 

“It is.” Dean confirms.  He doesn’t get a chance to shake the hand off, but does settle his clothes, pick at the gas.  “Oh great, gotta buy vinegar tomorrow.”

 

It doesn’t surprise Frank that the kid knows how to get the stink of gasoline out of clothes.  Instead, he wonders how many times the kid’s done it.

 

“That’s tomorrow.”  Frank says though, turns towards the way out, snagging the gas can that Dean apparently chucked back out of the pit.  He waits though until Dean’s with him to start out, pausing at the side door and checking, in case, before taking to the alley.

 

The route back’s different, and Frank finds a rank alley to ditch the gas can in.  He doesn’t need it that bad.  Dean shifts from foot to foot, playing look out while he does it, without even having to be told.

 

 “Bring me your gear tomorrow.  I got vinegar,” Frank says when they’re on the way up the stairs in the apartment building, and he knows they’re deserted.  “Save you the trip.”

 

“You do laundry?” Dean huffs a quiet laugh.  His voice doesn’t carry.

 

“Laundry don’t do itself,” Frank tells him.  “Smart ass.”

 

“Hey, at least some part of me’s got to be,” Dean fires back, clearly testing his limits, eyes darting sideways.

 

Frank gives him a look, almost at their landing, and wonders if it’s a teenager thing.  Or if it’s a this-teenager thing.  Christ, what a weird thought.  “Don’t give yourself shit, kid.”

 

“Yeah, okay.”  Dean shrugs. 

 

It don’t sit right, but there’s a lot that don’t sit right lately.  “Good taking out the trash with you.”  They’re at the landing.  Last thing to say before the hallway.

 

“You too.”  Dean says. 

 

Frank opens his own door, stands just inside until he hears Dean's click shut, hears the locks slide home.  He closes and bolts his own door and sets about changing, showering, getting the stink of gasoline out of his clothes.  Frank sleeps through the boys leaving, for the most part, save a brief stir to consciousness because Sammy's stomping down the hallway. 

 

Around lunchtime, Frank's had the scanner on, made some more notes leading him back, back, and back to Mac and the chop shop.  Frank gets up to make some lunch—fried bologna sandwiches and macaroni and cheese.  They are indulgent comfort foods and he only eats them before he plans to burn a lot of calories—and he'll be doing that tonight.   

 

Dean knocks when the mac and cheese is just about done, and Frank lets him in to add his laundry to what Frank's got ready to go.  Tells the kid to get it started after looking at the hang-dog expression hiding behind the stoic mask. He isn't old enough or jaded enough to keep everything off his face, but he's doing good trying. 

 

Frank fries up a couple extra slices of bologna, dishes the mac and cheese into two bowls.  Dean sits down in front of the food and looks for a minute like he's gonna protest, then his stomach roars, and Dean tucks in.  Frank grunts his approval, eats his own meal.  Figures, if Dean's gonna talk about what's on his mind, he's more likely to do it if Frank just lets him be. 

 

Turns out he's right.  Halfway done with the pasta, Dean says, "Sammy was waiting up for me.  He doesn't know, about ghosts and stuff." 

 

"Why's that?"  Frank asks. 

 

"He's too young, too smart. I—we—we protect him from it.  So he can just.  Do his thing." 

 

"Seems like it's you doing a lot of the protecting," Frank tells him. 

 

"He's my little brother," Dean says in answer, like that explains everything, and to Dean, maybe it does.  Maybe that's Dean's definition, the same way Frank defined his life as "They're my children" and "She's my wife."   

 

"So you do what you gotta do.  I can respect that," Frank says.  "Ain't easy though, taking care of somebody." 

 

Dean snorts.  "We get by." 

 

"How many meals you skipped?"  Frank asks, and his aim's always been good. 

 

Dean stabs his fork into his mac and cheese, eats the next bite a bit sullenly. 

 

Frank chows down, too.  "When you expecting your dad?"  Frank finally asks him.

 

The question earns a look and a long time chewing from Dean before he swallows and answers. “He’ll call or come back soon.  Said he had a strong lead, and I’m good to take care of Sammy for a while.”  There’s warning in the kid’s tone.

 

There’s a lot in that to warn about, and apparently the kid knows it, but probably not _how_ much.  Frank just nods a little, lets most of it lie.  Makes himself just gaze across the top of the truth that’s started worming its way up into the light.  Gotta see the whole picture, sometimes. 

 

After another bite: “He’s taught you a lot.  How to watch your six.  Watched my six too.  Caught on fast to the bossing around I was doing, trying to goad that scum last night onto me.  Kept your head in the right place.  You’re the one who did the job.” 

 

It isn’t high praise, just the facts in a rundown, but the way Dean ducks his head and clearly tried not to show the shine of pride in his eyes—Frank has to wonder what the hell the kid’s dad does when he’s actually around.  Teach one to take care of the other, keep the other ignorant—shit.  Smart kids figure out when they’re missing something.  If Sammy is as smart as Dean thinks, it’s not going to last.  Dean probably knows it, too.

 

Hell, maybe Sammy already suspected, might be one of the reasons they fought all the time.  On that, Dean was clearing his throat.  “Yeah, well.  I’ve been learning for a while.  I got to keep an eye out, just in case.”

 

“Part of your job?”  He treats it like one, so Frank doesn’t feel like he’s mislabeling here. 

 

“Yeah.  I’m not supposed to hunt on my own—good policy.  But if something’s around, if it’s a threat, I keep an eye out.  Dad doesn’t leave us somewhere he knows is going to be a problem, but this is a big, big city.  There’s got to be problems everywhere, just getting missed,” Dean says.

 

Frank nods a little.  Thinks about that.  “There’s problems.”

 

Dean seems to realize what he’s said, and glances around at the crates in Frank’s apartment.  “. . . Guess you get it.”

 

There’s more to it than that.  Frank waits a few, then, “You said a lead.  That means something happened.  And this don’t seem like a thing that a man pulls his kids into unless that something was damned bad.”

 

“No one gets into killing shit like this without a something bad.  Guess—” Dean looks around again.  “Oh shit, that’s why you do it.”

 

“Close enough,” Frank confirms.  Thanks to the trial, it’s public record anyway.  “Took my family right in front of me.  My wife, both kids.”

 

“You get the ones who did it?” Dean asks, direct, straight heat in his voice.

 

“I got them.” Frank don’t feel much saying it.  It doesn’t feel . . . good.  Maybe like satisfaction.  Like something that needed done though.  Relief.  But not much, and it didn’t last.  The yawning _now what_ just wouldn’t shut up after, either _._

 

Dean nods though, and looks like he’s trying to figure out how it _could_ feel.

 

Frank goes on, “But that doesn’t stop the problem.  Your dad going to stop when he gets yours?” 

 

“I don’t know if he will,” Dean says.  “Stop, or get ours.  He gets a lot of leads.  He thinks he’s close a lot—maybe he is.  He won’t tell me that kind of thing, just—pieces.  And sometimes he’s just on a hunt to get information from someone else, make a connection.”  He adds a shrug at the end there, and sucks the last of the cheese off his fork.

 

“How long have you been at it?” Frank gets a bad feeling, asking that.

 

“It killed Mom when I was four and Sammy was a baby.  It set the house on fire, and so there wasn’t even any evidence later to find, just what we saw,” Dean says.

 

 _We saw._ In his head, Frank sees Lisa, at four, with little Frankie, trying to manage to hold him right in her skinny little lap.  “You _saw_ it?”  he manages.

 

“No—neither did Dad.  Or we’d have ganked it by now.  I saw—her.  That’s all,” Dean says.  He shrugs again, tight and uncomfortable.  “Dad tried to get her down, sent me out of the house with Sammy.  So he saw a lot more, what it did.”

 

Frank decides he doesn’t want more details, thinks that’s more than enough to get the picture of what matters now: “So you take your job serious.”

 

“Hell yes, I do,” Dean agrees.

 

“You really think your brother doesn’t know something’s going on?”

 

“No.  He knows _that_ , just not _what_.  But I tell him, and he can’t _not_ know ever again.  I can’t even imagine what that’s like, but I figure it must be pretty nice,” Dean says.  “He could go on one day and make something with his life.  He’s really smart, works hard.  People like him.  He’s got a chance, but not if he gets caught up in this.”

 

Frank isn’t sure if this is brainwashing, or if it’s just the actual, 100% of what the kid believes is true coming out his mouth.  Because it sure sounds like if little brother hung the sun and moon, it’s Dean’s job here to stoop down and give him a boost up to do it. 

 

“What about you?” Frank decides, _fuck it,_ and asks.

 

“I’m a hunter.  Dad doesn’t think I can on my own—even though I have and I’ve backed him up.  But once Sammy gets to college, that’s what I’ll be doing.  He’ll probably have me covering more ground he can’t get to, that kind of thing.” Dean either doesn’t understand the question, or pretends he doesn’t. 

 

Frank thinks it’s the latter.  “You get your GED?”

 

Dean groans, but grins.  “That was pure luck.”

 

“Naw,” Frank says.  “Not buying it.”

 

“Okay, okay.  I worked my ass off because I missed two years of three things with all our moves, and then sweated so much the mouse kept slipping, since it was expensive as hell to take,” Dean admits.  “But no more school was pretty sweet.”

 

“Yeah, everybody says that, even people who go on and do more right after,” Frank tells him, grinning a little back. 

 

It’s almost enough.  Now that light’s been shed, Frank’s got a bead on the father, a clear sightline, but he still doesn’t know what he’s going to do with it.  And he wonders, seriously wonders, how much of a mirror he’s going to see when he meets the guy.  And possibly shoots him in the face.  It’s not a decision Frank finds himself wanting to make, and yet.

 

“What’d you do after high school?  Military or something?” Dean asks, tentative.  And then, hell.  The kid gets up and takes the dishes to the sink, sneaking a look like he’s wondering if he’s doing the right thing, squirrelly in a way that makes Frank uncomfortable. 

 

Dean starts to wash up, and Frank gets up and brings his own dishes over to lend a hand.  Dean seems surprised to be joined, but then he relaxes a little.  The dryer makes a noise, done, and Frank goes to empty it, separate Dean's clothes from his own.  Dean leans against a wall, watches.  Frank folds the clothes out of reflex.  Finds himself saying, "I'm going to talk to your boss tonight." 

 

"Mac?  What for?" 

 

"He runs a chop shop.” 

 

The kid keeps washing dishes for a second, then turns to look at Frank.  "Are you gonna kill him?" 

 

"Depends," Frank tells him, and it's honest.  "You really wanna know?  You want me to say it?"  Frank's tone is even, but he knows there's conviction in his voice.  Knows it because it's there, because he's seen people piss themselves when he says, _I'm gonna kill you_.  They believe him.  It isn't a matter of faith.

 

They know. 

 

"I don't want to know," Dean tells him, and his voice is real serious.  It's a tone Frank can respect.  He is not surprised when Dean adds, "But I don't think it's right to _not_ know." 

 

"Okay," Frank says.  He leans back against the counter, drying his hands.  "Mac only takes cars sometimes.  Means he's got somebody specific he's working with.  Now—it's one thing to just take cars 'cause you got a buddy lifting cars.  It's another thing if you're the chop shop for organized crime.  So.  Depends on how dirty Mac is, whether he's having his last meal right now or not." 

 

"That's all there is to it?  What if he gives you information?  Or goes to the cops, like on TV, you know?  To give evidence?" 

 

"I'm not going to the cops," Frank tells Dean.  "The fuckers I go after don't deserve to clog up the justice system.  They don't deserve a second chance."  He straightens. "I'm not out there gunning down drug addicts and graffiti artists, Dean.  I'm going after the scum that poisons our city, our world.  Wipe out enough of them, others'll start making different decisions." 

 

Dean looks at him a long minute. Shakes his head.  "You're pretty fucked up, man."

 

Frank smiles with half his mouth, wry.  "Yeah, I know." 

 

Dean heads out soon after that, taking his laundry with him.  Frank hears him leave to go pick up Sammy a little later.  Frank eats some eggs for dinner.  Packs a protein bar into his pocket, a bottle of water, too.  Always good to have on hand.  As the sun sets, he's strapping on his gear, pulling his jacket on over it.  By ten p.m., he's watching Mac's Auto Body from a vantage two roofs away.  He waits until Mac's alone, working the car crusher by himself, before heading down.  The crunch and squeal of metal covers Frank's approach, though he moves cautiously anyway.  He is not worried about the security cameras he saw.  Let the scum of the earth know he's coming; let them know what it means to do their trade while he's still breathing.   They won’t turn over the footage.

 

He thinks about Lisa, Frankie, and hits Mac on the back of the head.  He's only out long enough for Frank to get him where he wants him.  When Mac comes to, he's duct taped to himself, head hanging off the edge of the crusher, legs tucked neatly under the van that was in there, waiting to get demolished.  Frank's taken off his jacket. 

 

"Tell me who you're chopping cars for," Frank says from a distance away, where he's holding the switch that'll lower the press.  He hits it.  Mac screams, even though the van isn't squashed enough to touch his legs yet.  Just a second or two, and Frank stops it. 

 

Mac squeals everything. 

 

He'd told Dean—Mac's life depends on how dirty he was. Turns out, Mac is plenty dirty.  He's been doing work for filthy fucking scum, and he gave Frank names, addresses. Frank writes them down, makes Mac tell him twice. 

 

Then he turns on the crusher, and watches.  He’s never flinched or hid from the deaths he doles out.  Mac is enabling the worst kind of scum, and Frank cannot abide his continued existence. 

 

"Stop!"  Dean's voice. 

 

Frank turns, sidearm raised.

 

Dean stops where he'd been hurrying towards Frank, his eyes wide and panicky.  "Please, _stop_ , please!" 

 

"You heard what he does?  Who he does it for?"  The wrath and the rage are right there, boiling under the surface of Frank's skin.  Mac is screaming, crying. The crusher is slow, so slow.  A high-pitched scream tells Frank that it's started his work.   

 

"At least do it clean!"  Dean yells at him. 

 

Frank holds his ground, looks at the kid.  Draws in a frustrated breath—

 

Dean turns and plugs two bullets right in Mac's forehead, ending his screams abruptly.

 

“Fuck!” Frank grinds the word out, spitting it, because—“The hell—”  He can’t _move,_ and it’s stupid.  His instincts scream at him to react, but he’s staring, because all he can think is that _he should’ve shot Mac first._

 

“Do—do you always do it like that?  What the hell is the point of it?  That’s—that’s not _wiping out._ That’s—that’s splattering them.  You know what splatter _does_?”  Dean spits right back.

 

“It does the job, it makes them pay.” Frank says.  The words feel whole and wide coming out of his mouth, his jaw cracking.

 

“Dying bad is exactly how that asshole in the pit ended up murdering people—You’re making monsters.  And I don’t mean the ones who are going to be gunning for you, maybe not caring about stray bullets.  Oh yeah, I looked you up,” Dean says.

 

Frank sees red, real red, roaring.  He realizes he never lowered his gun, because he’s staring down the top of it at Dean. 

 

Who lifts his chin, breathes deep and rapid through his nose, mouth wired shut.  He’s got his gun lowered, has had since he shot Mac.  Frank sees it, outside the narrow view down the barrel of his pistol at Dean, who he—

 

Is not going to shoot.  What the fuck.   Frank slowly, carefully bends his wrist so the muzzle’s skyward before he eases poundage off the trigger.  His finger feels like it needs oiling, like it creaks.  “Jesus, kid.  I don’t—I don’t want to shoot you.  I didn’t.”

 

Dean swallows so loud that Frank can actually hear it.  Then the kid goes on and clears his throat for good measure.  “You sure?”

 

“Yeah, I’m sure.”  What was he playing at?

 

“I just shot a guy.” Dean points out.  Literally, he points at Mac’s body.  He doesn’t look at it though.

 

“He was dead anyway.” Frank tells him.

 

“Did it help to make him hurt?  Does it actually help?  I mean, seriously, I read you’ve got a thing, with your head.  But you don’t look like you were feeling good.  We wasted that ghost, you were way different,” Dean says.  He gestures again, but still avoids looking.

 

“You shot a guy before?” Frank asks, not planning it, but it happens anyway.

 

“I’ve shot a few guys, you think every monster is missing a body?” Dean looks down, and off.  “First time I shot anybody, they were after us.  I had to.  Let’s just leave it there.”

 

That—now is not the time.  “Yeah.  You said splatter, but ending it quick.  What kind of guarantee is that?”

 

“It’s not, but it’s a lot better.  Seems like quick—it cuts someone off faster.  Usually we see someone with part of themselves left over, they suffered.  They were ripped away.  As a rule, we cremate anyway.  Just in case.”  Dean finally looks at the body.  Blood’s leaked out on the ground, there’s splatter, despite all the words about a clean kill.

 

No kills are clean.

 

“So, we cremate.” Frank says.  “Your prints on that bullet?”

 

“Naw, I was careful loading.  You—going to burn the shop down?” Dean asks.  He just sounds curious, not like he’s worried about his job. 

 

Frank thinks he probably isn’t.  Might have a compartment in his head between those two thoughts. 

 

“No,” Frank just says.

 

Dean plays lookout, own gun shoved in the back of his pants in a way that makes Frank’s eyebrow twitch, and Frank goes about the burning.  He gets the splatter, and thinks about Mexican cartel pulling themselves off meat hooks, Kitchen Irish mobsters full of holes standing up, about his little girl and boy, his Maria—he hopes they’re at peace.  The idea of little bits of them stuck here, splatter—That don’t piss him off, that makes his bones ache. 

 

Mac has enough accelerant around and matches, it’s no trouble to see him flame up.  Frank realizes he’s not going to finish his job tonight, though. 

 

“You not got a holster?” he asks Dean, walking up to where the kid’s leaning in a shadow, slouched but feet even, ready to move.

 

“Naw, Dad takes those.  Usually if I need something, it’s a shotgun or—whatever.” Dean looks back, past him, at the dwindling flames and the greasy smell.  Pulls a face—“Barbeque.”

 

“The hell, kid,” Frank says. 

“That’s what barbeque smells like.  Go down south sometime, it’s nuts.  I mean, without the weird plastic and the fabric smells.”  Dean shrugs.  “Now what?”

 

“Now we go back, you’re done.”

 

“What about you?”

 

“I’m done tonight,” Frank admits.

 

“Tomorrow, going to finish it?”  Dean presses, his gaze gone steady again.

 

“Might,” Frank says.  “I’ll remember what you said, so get it out of your head—don’t you follow me again.”

 

“Yeah, okay.  I can’t keep leaving Sammy at night anyway.  He’s got the shotgun, but he’s never had to shoot it at anything but targets,” Dean says.  He shrugs, again.

 

Frank realizes he’s going to have to make his hit in broad daylight, while Dean’s at work or getting his brother, because damned if that don’t sound like avoidance.  And then he can’t help picking up again—shot anything but targets at that age.  What’s that mean in comparison?

 

He already knows. 

 

When they walk up the stairs, quiet except for the creaking of boots and the echo of footsteps, Frank knows damn well that if either of his babies had survived, he’d not be here now, doing this shit like a hollow man, no matter what scrambling his brain had gone through.  He doesn’t get it.  It’s a whole different kind of fucked up, and Frank knows fucked up.  He kills it twice a week if he can manage.

 

In the hallway, he gives Dean a nod, a pat on the shoulder before heading on past to his own door.  As usual, he waits to latch his own door, to hear all the kids’ latch closed before locking up himself.

 

He might have to decide a few things.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Frank spends the next day out, taking out trash and at the library.  Dean doesn't have work because Mac's is a crime scene, but Frank slips out when Dean takes Sammy to school.  He keeps in mind what the kid said about splatter, shoots out the scum he came for from across the street. Clean as he can get.  Then: library.   

 

What he finds makes him angry, would put John Winchester in his sights if not for what Dean's told him, what Frank's seen with his own eyes.  Not all monsters are missing bodies, Dean'd said, and Frank wonders how many of the bodies in John’s wake actually belong to Dean.  He hopes not many.  He'd rather not _any_ , and it makes him angry beyond his own comprehension at John Winchester for ever putting a gun in his kid's hands.   

 

Frank comes back in the late afternoon.  He stops by a burger joint, gets plenty of food and three sodas, and heads up to the apartment.  He skips his own door, goes to knock on the kids'. 

 

Dean answers, frown on his face.  "What's wrong?"  Dean asks.   

 

"Who's at the door, Dean?" 

 

"Go back to your homework, Sammy, _God_ ," Dean snaps back.   

 

"Nothing's wrong," Frank says.  "Just heard the garage was closed today.  Thought I'd help out, bring by dinner."  He meets Dean's eyes, giving Dean the excuse. He can take it or leave it. Frank'll eat the burgers if he doesn't want Frank to come in. He's eaten worse. 

 

But Dean shrugs, then grins, and opens the door. "Sure, why not.  Come on.  You can meet Sammy." 

 

Frank comes in, intending to drop off the kids' burgers, take his own dinner next door, but Dean's clearing space off at the table, emptying a third chair of what Frank assumes is the detritus of Sammy's academic career. Sammy's twelve and looks it, still boy-small and not yet pimple-faced.  His hair's long and floppy and reminds Frank of dogs or stuffed animals.  He looks up at Frank with bright, intelligent eyes. 

 

"Who's this?" Sammy asks his brother.  

 

"This is Frank," Dean says.  "He got me the job at Mac's." 

 

_Smooth_ , Frank thinks.  He adds, "I live next door." 

 

Sammy seems to accept this, puts away his algebra homework.  "I'll get napkins," he says, and hops up to do that.  Frank meets Dean's eyes, and Dean nods at the third chair.  Clear enough. 

Frank hasn't sat down to share a meal with anybody since his family died, but that night he sits with Dean and Sammy, and they're bright enough to smooth over all the awkwardness Frank feels.  He listens to them talk about music and TV, gets drawn into a discussion about Metallica versus Nirvana, Kansas versus Pearl Jam, and all of that versus Imagine Dragons.  Frank prefers 90's grunge, having grown up on it, but isn't averse to rap and punk.  Sammy's a pop music devotee, much to Dean's despair, because classic rock is Dean's love. 

 

Frank finds himself smiling, listening to Sammy and Dean's good-natured bickering.  It sounds like an old argument, a perennial argument, the kinds families have.  The hollow spaces inside Frank ache watching, but he doesn't leave.  He eats his burgers, eats his fries, and drinks his soda. 

 

"Dean likes burgers with bacon too," Sammy tells him. 

 

"Shuttup, Sammy," Dean says back with a big eye roll.  "I'm good, man—no, really—"

 

"It's a little too done for me," Frank says, sliding his second bacon burger across the table, and taking the just-opened cheeseburger in its stead. "The bacon, I mean.  Go ahead." 

 

Dean eats the burger.  Sammy asks Frank if he wants to stay over and watch The Simpsons with them on TV, but Frank declines.  Dean walks him out, and Frank listens to the locks slide home after goodbyes.  He hears Sammy on the other side of the door. 

 

"Why's he so sad, Dean?" 

 

"He had a family," Dean says, quiet, but not quiet enough.   

 

"What happened to them?"

 

"Bad stuff," Dean answers.  "Don't ask him.  Okay?  Just trust me on this one.  He'll tell you if he wants to tell you."  Then, Dean's footsteps walking away. 

 

Frank turns into his own apartment, food heavy in his guts.   

 

Dean and Sammy are good boys, Frank thinks as he settles in at his table, listens to the familiar refrain of _The Simpsons_ drift through the walls. Hears, a minute later, Sammy's bright laugh and Dean's snorted guffaw before they both quiet down. 

 

 Frank finds himself listening for them. 

 

He doesn't talk to Dean or Sammy for a few days.  Then, on a Friday afternoon, Frank finds a note slid under his door.  It's written on lined notebook paper and says, "Dean got a new job at a grocery store.  He's making pancakes for dinner tonight.  You're invited!  Please come, Dean's pancakes are great.  Sincerely, Sam Winchester."  The "Sam" is underlined a couple of times, as if to emphasize that it's not _Sammy_.   

 

Frank had been planning to go kill somebody.  But—pancakes.  He can't remember the last time he ate them. 

 

He finds himself throwing on civvies, holstering only a single side-arm and one knife, and heading to the corner store to get some ice cream.  He gets butterscotch before he's even thought about it twice, and has to put his hand against the freezer door—feel it cold and metal under his palm—to ground himself.  He knows he can't bring this to dinner—a little old lady is giving him a concerned look as it is—so he puts the butterscotch back.  Get plain old vanilla instead, a flavor his entire family had felt very _vanilla_ about, and takes that with him instead. Dean and Sammy are thrilled by the idea of pancakes with ice cream, and Dean's pancakes really are good. 

 

The end of the month is coming up, and Frank starts worrying about how he's going to bring up rent with Dean, and whether Dean has the money.   

 

His worries aren't necessary.  John Winchester shows back up three days before rent is due.

 

Frank’s been staying in the last couple nights, listening to chatter during the evenings, picking up a new pattern, when he hears the heavier than normal footsteps in his hall.  He pauses and waits, pulling the radio’s earbud out to let it whine at nothing for a while.  He puts a hand on a handgun, breathes, listens.

 

The steps don’t make it to his door though, stop at the boys’ instead, and a series of quiet knocks, rapid then spaced, and he hears Sammy’s higher voice through the thin walls, even if he can’t understand the words.  Dean’s steps creak to the door, but don’t make it before the door opens.  Frank, not for the first time, is glad it’s two apartments to each side of the hall.

 

It’s a happy sounding homecoming, and that twists something up in Frank’s gut.  He shoves the earbud back in and hears chatter about a homicide, a runner found nearly inside out on the edge of Central Park.  Not his usual concern.  Cops’ll be all over it.  Nasty though, so he writes it down anyway.

 

Then he can’t help it, he’s not listening, but arguments always draw attention—Frank takes the earbud out again and moves to the near wall, because he’s been thinking about the Winchester problem.  He’s not _sure_ , which is something new for him now.

 

_We were going to run out, ask Dean!  Ask him!  Dean, tell him you had to get a job and you—_ The kid’s fired up, his voice is starting to crack at the edges.

 

Must be John answering, his voice is a quiet, calm volume that sounds like he’s explained this before, gaining a little bit of sharpness though— _Sammy, that’s enough.  The sale took longer this time, it couldn’t be helped.  Dean should have called me, if there’d been a problem._

_Dad, you don’t always care if we have a problem, you just make Dean fix it!_

_Hey—hey, enough, okay?_ Dean.  There’s the sound of footsteps, a shuffling.  Frank thinks he might’ve stepped between them.  _It’s fine, it’s okay.  Can we just—we’re all back in the same place.  It sucked that you were gone so long, we were getting low, but I’d have gotten a job anyway.  It looks weird to just sit around all day while you’re at school, Sammy._

_Who cares about looking weird—Oh wait!  We care, this stupid family—we can’t do anything normal or right, and I bet we’re moving again tomorrow, aren’t we?  I just—_ A noise of quiet frustration, a scuffing noise.

_Sammy, we will do what we need to do._ John again.  He’s easier to hear this time.

 

_We always do what YOU say we need to do.  When do Dean and I get to decide what we need to do, huh?_

 

Dean’s voice cuts in, harder to hear while the others have been getting clearer, louder— _What is it you’re getting at, Sammy?  You found something you want to do in town, right?_

 

It’s quiet a long moment, and Frank leans back.  It’s fine.  It’s safe over there.  At least—physically.  Like Dean said: Sammy somehow doesn’t know.  But like they also talked about: He knows something.

 

_There’s a school, for smart kids.  Everyone took a test, and I scored really well.  I didn’t think we’d even be—_

 

_No._ John’s voice is clipped, cut, and that’s it.

 

_But—_

_You know better.  Dammit, Sammy—_

_We can’t afford that anyway, you know that, Sam._ That’s Dean.

_I scored good enough to get it paid for.  It’s that kind of school._ Sammy’s voice is easy to hear now.  Frank could hear it if he were across the room.  By the window, over street noise. 

 

_That’s awesome, Sammy._ Dean’s proud.

 

_It’s stupid, is what it is, drawing attention like that._

 

_You know what’s stupid, you are!  People don’t leave their kids like you do—like you don’t even care!_

_You’re all I care about!_

_You’re a liar!  You don’t go off to sell anything!  No one pays in cash, and your credit cards have fake names—you’re a liar!_

_Stop—Jesus, will you two just—_

_Stop defending him, Dean!  He doesn’t care—He didn’t even notice when you stopped going to school.  He—_

_ENOUGH!_ John’s yell is followed by completed silence, then the telltale banging of a broomstick on the ceiling, coming from downstairs.

 

Then a slamming door.  The bedroom door, next door.

 

The voices after that, they’re too quiet to hear, low rumbles and pacing, and nothing for a while.  Eventually, it goes quiet.  Frank goes back to his radio entirely, his notes.  Nothing noticeable for a while, means he stops paying attention.  The new normal settles in, and he still doesn’t know what he’ll do.

 

The knock at his own door surprises him.  The man he sees through the spyhole has Dean’s dark hair, but it’s Sammy’s thickness, and he’s got that slightly rural look about his clothes that the boys can’t shake.

 

Frank opens the door to John Winchester with his gun safety on, cringing internally as he stuffs it down the back of his jeans and thinks _I got onto the kid for this same damn thing._ But there’s no time for a holster.  And he’d rather have a knife if he ends up doing something here.  It’s warm in his hand, blade locked open, grip warm from being in his pocket.

 

“Hi there.  I’m John Winchester.  I understand you helped get my son, Dean, a job.  I also expect you heard us arguing a little bit earlier.  I wanted to say thank you, and also apologize.”  John’s smile looks real, but his eyes are as warm as an Iraqi winter night.  His hands are visible, and he extends one to shake, but not too far from his body.  His center mass.

 

“Frank.  Yeah, both of those.”  Frank can tell when he’s being threat assessed.  He shakes though, keeps his left hand with its knife behind the cover of the door. 

 

John has a lot of calluses. 

 

“I hope it wasn’t trouble—can I ask though, how you knew Dean needed work?” John asks, taking his hand back.

 

Frank thinks about saying a lot of things.  He decides to say, “Happened to see him out looking, just one of those coincidences.”

 

“That so?” John frowns, wary.

 

Frank gives him a wary look right back.  “Which part bothers you?  That someone else helped your kid?  Hell, can’t be the first time.  Good kid like that, taking care of his brother, keeping his head down otherwise?”

 

“Yeah, he is a good kid,” John says.  “And I’m damn sure he’s listening at our door.”

 

“Let him.” Frank shrugs.  He thumbs the knife’s grip slightly, the edge of the blade.  Still hidden.

 

John looks at him a long few seconds, then nods slightly.  Deciding something for himself.  “All right.  Good night.  Thanks again.”

 

“Glad to help out,” Frank tells him, instead of _you’re welcome._ He watches John take a step back, another side step, not turn around and show his back until he’s a foot or so away.  It actually manages to look natural.

 

Frank lets him go, and shuts the door.

 

Frank lets him go.

 

The next morning, there’s another note shoved under his door.  Paper, folded once.  The writing is unfamiliar, and just says _Mr. Castle.  Thanks again._

 

It’s unsigned, that declaration addressed right to him, using his real name—not his alias, which he didn’t even bother to use for labeling his apartment buzzer.  Frank doesn’t think Dean would’ve told; Sammy didn’t know.  It means that John Winchester either knew already, or found out.

 

The hell did that mean? 

 

Frank thinks about asking—but he sees Dean dogging Sammy’s quick, escaping-to-school footsteps out the window in the morning light, and there’s not a sound from next door.  Too late. 

 

Frank sits with that _too late_ on his conscience for a few more days, until Dean knocks on his door again.  He's wearing a cheap polo shirt that says "Zucker's" on the chest.  Dean's apparently gone from working at a grocery to working at the corner deli.  It can't pay as good as Mac's, but Frank figures Dean gets comped meals, at least. 

 

"What's up, kid?" Frank asks him, inviting him in.  He hasn't planned on making a real effort at cooking lunch, but when he hints that he was about to, Dean gets a hungry look on his face he tries to hide.  Easily, Frank tells him to sit down, Frank'll get something started.  Beans-and-franks, maybe, a meal that's brought more jokes in Frank's life than he cares to recall. 

 

"Just been a while since we talked," Dean says.  "Making sure nobody'd knocked you off."  He shrugs. 

 

"Not yet," Frank says, opening a can of beans.  "You like your beans sweet or spicy?" 

 

"Spicy-sweet," Dean answers.  "But I'll eat anything." 

 

"Huh," Frank says, dumps in some ketchup and cayenne.  Spicy sweet it is.  Frank can make do on protein bars, but like many military men, he hates bland food.  If he has reason or choice, he will _not_ eat bland food.  A bit of cayenne makes MRE chili almost good, and so one of Frank's concessions to living in this place has been the accumulation of some select spices.   

 

"Met your dad," Frank offers, chopping up the hotdogs he's gonna throw in with the beans.   

 

At the table, Dean stiffens, just a little.  "I—I told him what I told Sammy.  That you helped me get a job.  I didn't tell him about you helping to waste the ghost." "There a reason you kept me out of that story?"  Frank asks.  He doesn't think for a second it was the kid seeking glory. 

 

"Just didn't know how he'd take it," Dean admits, picking at the pilling on his cheap jeans.  "Sometimes that's easier."   

 

"He seems like a hard man to please," Frank says, trying to be diplomatic.  Kids can try your patience, but Frank likes to think he'd never've talked to his kids like that.  If Lisa or Frankie had made it into a special school, he and Maria would've moved heaven and earth to help them make it. 

 

"Need help with the beans?"  Dean asks, apparently deciding that it was easier just not to comment on that. 

 

Frank tells the kid to get them some bowls and spoons.  He pours them both milk to drink, notes Dean's grimace and thinks that he ought to get some of that chocolate powder for next time.  "So what's the plan for you and Sammy now?" Frank asks instead. 

 

"I'm gonna keep working," Dean answers.  "Sammy's going to keep going to school.  And Dad'll come back for us when he comes back." 

 

"Right," Frank says.  "Listen.  He knows who I am." 

 

Dean stiffens at the table, looks up.  "I didn't tell him anything," Dean says, sounding like he means it, like he's desperate for Frank to believe it. 

 

"I believe you, kid," Frank tells him.  Lays a hand on his shoulder, and tries not to let his own chest open up too much at how Dean stiffens again, then leans into it.  "But I need to move." 

 

That shocks Dean a little—he stares, then deflates.   

 

"I'm gonna give you my number," Frank tells him.  "You're gonna memorize it and call me if you need anything.  Or Sammy does." He pauses a beat. "Or it's pancake night." 

 

Dean's subdued but tries to hide it the rest of the meal.  Frank can't get him to talk about much other than his job and Sammy, and Frank wishes he'd told the kid later on.  But Dean does memorize his number, and that evening, Dean comes over to tell him it's pancake night.  Frank, who keeps vanilla ice cream in the freezer now just for this, comes on over, bringing a package of bacon with him too.  Sammy's a little down, too, sulky and moody, and Frank knows it's because of his dad.  Makes Frank feel bad, and he thinks again, _too late_. 

 

He moves that night.  Makes trips down to a van he borrowed from somebody friendly to his mission, and makes a reckless decision:  he slides his address under Dean's door.  It's not near.  He's moving out to Queens, getting more distance between him and Daredevil.   The spider kid (and he’s pretty sure it’s a kid), he’s not too worried about.

 

He thinks Dean's not gonna call.  He hopes Dean will.  In the end it's Sammy who calls, saying he bugged Dean for the number, and he and Frank talk for a good half hour.  Dean calls the next afternoon, right after Frank's put two child rapists in a freezer.  Dean's working two jobs; wants to know if Frank can come over. 

 

Frank tells him yeah. He'll be over in a few hours.  When he hangs up, he opens the freezer, points his knife at the gasping, cold men inside.  Says, "One of you's gonna tell me who's giving you the videos.  That one gets to die fast." 

 

It's a lie. Frank gets the name, and kills them both fast.  No ghosts.  He's remembered what Dean said. 

Frank brings over burgers, fries, and soda, like he did the first night he fed the boys.  This time he stays longer; Sammy needs algebra help, and Frank was always good at math, so he sits with Sammy at the little table and they talk coefficients and PEMDAS and why you don't divide by zero. 

 

It's the fifteenth of October, the air turning cold, when Dean shows up at Frank's door.  This apartment's bigger, more secure; he keeps most of his gear in the back room, actually has a bed in the other bedroom; he keeps more kinds of food, too, just in case.  When he sees Dean through the peephole, he doesn't think about offering food.  He knows something bad's happened. 

 

Dean's got tears on his face.  "My dad's dead," Dean tells him, and then just falls down, like the hinges of his knees couldn't hold him anymore, and he presses his knuckles hard against his eyes.  Frank watches him go down, watches him try to keep that grief inside.   

 

Part of him thinks, _They're better off without him._  

 

The other part, the part that wonders if he's having sane thoughts or brain-damage thoughts, thinks _Jesus it's his dad, you heartless fuck_. 

 

He sits down there in the open door, pulls Dean in, and lets Dean cry on his shoulder, hiding his face in Frank's t-shirt so they can both pretend he isn't losing it as much as he is.

 

It takes a few minutes, and no one walks past.  Dean’s the one who straightens and wipes his face, and reaches over to swing the door shut. 

 

“Sorry.  Sorry.”  The words bubble out the kid’s mouth, his eyes red and still leaking steady.  He looks about three years younger than usual, the leather jacket hanging weird around his shoulders when he reaches up to scrub the heel of his hand across his eyes.  He’s still got a lock-blade knife tucked in his pocket.

 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Frank tells him.  “How’d you find out?”  It’s easier than asking how it happened, what happened.  That will come.  It’s the middle of the day, and Sammy must be at school.  There’s some time to deal before the news is going to have to break over his head too.

 

“Another couple of hunters came along for the same job, found his phone on him.  The lady said—she checked his car, saw a picture of us.  So just called the most recent number.  I was home.”  Dean pauses, pursing his lips and then chewing the bottom one, then looking like he’s making himself stop.  Forces a rattling, phlegmy laugh.  “He didn’t always hunt alone.  He didn’t have to.  But the thing lured him, and.  He just fell, apparently.  Easy as that.  I don’t know if I believe them.”

 

Frank is not entirely sure what the right thing to ask next is, and at least that feels familiar.  Death when it’s attached to mourning, that’s never cut sharp and dry.  “What was he after?” 

 

“I don’t know.  He didn’t tell me this time.  But she said that they got it.  Said salted and burned, so a ghost.  A fuckin’ _spirit._ Jesus, he was better than that.”  He nearly hiccups, looks embarrassed by it.  Sniffs.  “They said—they took care of his body.  So, he won’t come back.”

 

Jesus.  Shit.  That idea—yeah, of course it was something the kid would worry about.  Frank gets up.  “Come on.”

 

Dean’s already getting his feet under him, but saying, “Yeah—yeah, sorry—"  He looks a little off balance when he’s standing, so Frank reaches out, grasps his shoulder.

 

“Where was he?”

 

“Eastern Pennsylvania—not even _far._   I need to tell Sammy.  I don’t—The car.  It can’t just stay out there.  I’m wasting time sobbing like—”

 

“Like a son who loved his father,” Frank cuts him off.  None of that bullshit.  “So, you tell your brother.  Maybe you tell him what happened.  But you need to go be sure, don’t you?  You need to go see.  And you need to get your father’s car.  Is there anyone else you can trust?”

 

Dean squares his weight over his feet and takes a long breath.  “Rufus lives up in Vermont, when he’s home.  He knows Bobby, and Bobby’s really great.  We used to stay with him sometimes.  But—not really.  You’re right.  I gotta take care of this.”

 

“I’ll help you, okay?  Don’t have to do it on your own.  You shouldn’t have to.”  The words are obvious.  Frank’s got nothing that can’t wait, and if the kid’s going to go off to check where his father died, someone needs a clear head.  And no one has a clear head at a time like that.  Not unless it’s so clear that there’s nothing else in it but echoes.

 

Something about this doesn’t seem right, but that could be Frank’s own echoes.  Suspicion.

 

“Thanks.  I—didn’t come for that.  I don’t know why I came here.  I just couldn’t think of what else to do.”  Dean looks off, down.  Shakes his head.  “I’m supposed to be tougher than this.”

 

“Bullshit.  No one’s tougher than this.”  Frank gets him moving, a nudge and a steer towards the kitchen area. 

 

Dean doesn’t protest, just goes along.  Accepts a wet paper towel and wipes at his face, sniffles some more while taking some black coffee, then some milk (Frank doesn’t keep creamer) and some sugar after he makes a face at it.  Maps get pulled out on phones, and Frank arms up a little, for just daylight, milk run style, and goes back with him to his own place.  Waits there while Dean goes to get Sammy.

 

By the time the brothers come in, Dean’s eyes are red and watery, but his face is still dry.  But Sammy looks spooked, and it’s going to come crumbling down.  Frank’s a goddamned intruder, but he stays anyway while Sammy says _hi_ in a tiny voice, and the boys go back into the bedroom and talk.

 

A half hour and some sobbing, some yelling later, and Sammy slams the door open and stomps in front of Frank.  His fists are balled at his sides, and his face is a red mess of tears.  “Dean says Dad killed monsters.  How do you know about this?”

 

“There was a warehouse, and there was something in it.  It would’ve got me, but your brother—he and I got it instead.  So I found out.”  Frank keeps it simple.

 

“So you don’t—you didn’t know Dad.”  Sam vibrates, anger or frustration, something.  His eyes are streaming.  Dean’s standing in the doorway of the bedroom, silent.

 

“Not until he came over to check me out, when he came here,” Frank says. 

 

“So—So.  Monsters isn’t.  Some fucking—” Sammy’s voice breaks there.  “Metaphor.”

 

Shit.  Frank gets it now: Apparently, Sam figured out who he was, too.  Course he did.  Smart kid.  “Not that I know of.”

 

“We just—happened to live by a vigilante for a while.  While.  Dad hunted monsters.  And Dean’s killed ghosts and werewolves.  And no one told me.  And Dad—”  Sam closes his mouth.  Then Dean’s there, and the rest of the evening goes weird and elastic.  The boys sit on the couch, and Frank feels even more like an intruder.  He goes to leave, but then makes dinner and sees the value brand shit in the cupboards, and tries not to be angry at a dead man.

 

The next morning, he rents a car in cash with a fake name, not Frank or Pete, but this time a Tom.  They’re all going, even with the squirrelly feeling in the pit of Frank’s stomach.  This doesn’t feel right, but he’s armed, and he’s not leaving the boys behind.  And it’s weird.  It’s fucking weird, taking a couple of kids to see where their father died and had his body impromptu cremated, meet the strangers who did it. 

 

But they both seem better at this shit than he does.  Dean’s got three routes planned out that say off interstates.  Sammy’s got food, and comments about how he thinks the upholstery in the back of the shitty little Acura must be hard to clean if it gets stained, but it probably is better in the sun than leather or vinyl.  Because it’s sunny, even with the frigid air. 

 

Frank sees Matthew Murdock with his cane, standing at a corner near the Lincoln Tunnel.  Murdock’s frowning right at him, but just stands there while they keep on going.  Frank apparently doesn’t do a good enough job of keeping his expression clear, because Dean follows his look, quirks a face.  He doesn’t ask though.  Good kid.

 

On the interstate, the drive would take a little under two hours.  They're headed to a little town called Fagleysville, Pennsylvania, which is north of Philadelphia and King of Prussia.  The drive avoids the cities and most of the bigger towns, takes them through farmland and forests, along rivers.  Sammy cries in the backseat a little.  They stop for a piss break about halfway through, and Frank buys the boys cheeseburgers and fries. Sammy doesn’t eat, but Dean does, shoving his burger then Sammy's in his mouth once Sammy's given up on it.  Frank doesn't say anything, just sits there in his three-days' of beard growth and Knicks hat, eats his own food like the machine his body is.   

 

Sammy takes a refill of the soda, though. 

 

The address Dean got was Swamp Cut Road.  Despite the name, the land is not at all swampy.  There's some farms, a trailer park, and a cheap looking motel. It's the motel they stop at.  Dean scans the parking lot and his eyes fix on a shining black muscle car, a real beauty.  His shoulders slump.  "There's the car," Dean says.  Sammy steps up beside him, bumps up against his brother. 

 

"Room 104," Frank says.  He didn't park in view of the door, but it's around the corner.   He’s going to keep his face out of it, be the unexpected. "I'll be watching." 

 

"Yeah, okay," Dean says.  "Sammy, you gonna stay here?"  Dean asks, giving him the choice. 

 

"No," Sammy says.  "Besides, it looks better for you if I go in. Since I'm a kid."  And Frank realizes, just then, that Sammy wore a t-shirt with a cartoon character on the front, holey jeans.  As Frank watches, Sammy bends down and half-unties one tennis shoe.  His hair's already floppy, too long, soft-looking.  He looks closer to ten than twelve. 

 

Sam Winchester is going to be dangerous.  Frank can tell from the look on Dean's face that Dean's a little surprised, but not shocked.  Frank shakes his head.  "Gimme two minutes," he says, then heads off across the parking lot, to take up position between two cars, to watch.  Two minutes later, Sam and Dean come around the corner, and Dean knocks on the door of 104.  A moment later, the door opens, and a middle-aged woman with graying hair opens it.  Her face looks sad and sympathetic.  Dean says something—the woman invites them in and closes the door. 

 

Frank settles a little more, to watch—and wait. 

 

It's about an hour before Dean and Sam emerge, shadowed this time by the same woman and a man, a beanpole of a guy with dirty blond hair.  Frank watches 'em close as they watch the boys leave, Sammy rubbing at his eyes and Dean trying real hard to look stoic. Frank doesn't think it's an act. Dean's got car keys in his hand.  The two other hunters watch him go, and Frank watches them.  From this distance, Frank can't hear 'em, can't even really read much in their body language. He waits until they go back inside before creeping back the way he came, to meet the boys at the Impala, which is parked far from room 104.  Dean's inside the trunk, lifting it up to show an arsenal Frank is impressed with.  John Winchester kept the tools of his trade neat and clean, organized.  Frank can respect that. 

 

"It's not here," Dean says, voice _angry_.  "Those fucking liars, it's not here—"

 

"What's missing?"  Frank asks. 

 

"Dad's journal," Dean says. "His bag's here—" He knocks a duffle bag on the pavement with his foot.  "He was ready to leave town.  But his journal _isn't here._ " 

 

"Is it in the bag?"  Sammy asks, bending down to unzip it, to check.   

 

"Didn't keep it there," Dean says, but he doesn't stop Sammy from looking.   

 

Frank's suspicion coils into action.   

 

"I'll get it," Frank tells Dean and Sammy.  He turns and walks around the corner of the motel, right to room 104, and knocks on the door.

 

The door doesn’t open immediately.  Frank squints at the peephole, standing back in plain sight, and in plain sight of the whole motel really.  They’d have to shoot him right here, if they’re that kind.  “Don’t be like that.  What room was John in?”

 

The beanpole opens the door this time, and up close he looks tight-eyed and tense across the shoulders.  “He was in 110.  But someone else is in the room now.  We cleaned it up, like we told the boys.”

 

“Yeah, but you didn’t say you _took something_ when you did.” Dean says.  Frank doesn’t look, but out of the corner of his eye, he can see—Dean’s come back just around the corner.  Keeping his distance.  Flanking.  Sammy’s not there—yet, maybe.

 

“We didn’t—”

 

“Enough of that.”  Frank walks into the room, shoving the door open past his pathetic attempt to block him.  “Stay out here.  Watch the corner.”  That’s to Dean, and then he closes the door.

 

The woman’s got a shotgun to bear on him.  “What the hell is this?”  She sounds like she could chew up iron and spit out nails. 

 

Frank stands by the door and squints at her.  The light’s not as bright in here.  They’ve only got one lamp and the toilet light on, shining in from deeper in the room.  There’s two beds, curtains drawn tight. 

 

They’re packed and ready.  They only had out the shotgun, hidden off behind the far bed where the woman stands.  The couple is not a couple, they’re family somehow.  Same eyes.  Jawline.

 

“I said—” She starts again, moving her finger from guard to trigger.  Beanpole has backed off, produced a pistol from what sounded like an otherwise empty dresser drawer.  He doesn’t aim it, but he has it in hand.  Safety still on though.

 

Frank shows his palms, up, out away from him.  These two are civilians, despite the hard looks.  They don’t realize that he’s got a gun at his back and a knife he can throw on the move, that their guns pointed at him really aren’t as much of a threat as they think.  He makes a show of his palms, and clears his throat.  He lays out some information, and some rope:

 

“The journal.  They want their father’s journal.  You have it.  They know you do.  I don’t know what story you fed them, but Dean smelled enough bullshit for that to be the first thing he checked for.  Which tells me, no matter what else good you _might_ have done, those boys out there will remember that.  And they’ll be deprived of the first thing they wanted when they went through his things.” 

 

“Who are you?” Beanpole—son, he’s pretty sure—opens his mouth before his mother decides what she wants to say.

 

“Not one of you, if that’s what you mean.  I stumbled across something that tried to kill me, had the good luck of having Dean out there save my life with knowing the right thing.  So I figure, the least I can do is pay back something by helping out when his _father dies._   Or was he killed?  I only met John the once, but he seemed to know what he was doing.”  More rope.

 

“That kid—yeah, we’d heard John taught his oldest how to hunt already.  When he’s not leaving them somewhere.”  The woman says.  “It’s the only reason I’m all right letting them go.”

 

“And who are you?” Frank turns the son’s question on her, but with a different tone.  “My name, by the way, is Frank.”  Why the hell not.

 

“Stella.  This is Martin.  And there’s nothing to tell.  We don’t have any journal.  We told the boys what happened, and that’s not for some random outsider to know,” Stella says.  “Now leave.”

 

“Stella, Martin’s your son, isn’t he?”  Frank don’t move a muscle.  “What happened to his father?  There a reason a family does this kind of thing together?”

 

“The fuck—We are _not_ like John fucking Winchester,” Martin cuts in.  “I was working in a fucking office.  I had a girlfriend.”

 

“That explains a lot,” Frank says, dry and sarcastic.  But actually, it does.  Because now that he’s had reason to look over, he sees Martin holding the gun in one hand, and the way it needs to be twisted to get out of his grip without his finger being able to get to the trigger, to aim.  Martin is untrained, with that grip—untrained against people, at least.

 

“And my husband, Martin’s father—they were taken.  You can’t let someone be taken from you and do nothing, so we got into the business, followed the hunters who took down the monsters who—” Stella shakes her head.  Her shotgun is less pointed at Frank’s heart now, more pointed at his feet.  Her finger’s not tight on the trigger.  Not quite enough inattention yet, though.  Still.

 

Shotgun shells have spread.

 

Jesus, though.  They weren’t lying.  “I know something about that kind of thing.  My wife and kids.  Different kind of monsters though.  Kind the cops go after,” Frank says.  Interrogations don’t need the whole truth.  The kernel though.  He can’t help the heat behind his words.  He _does_ get them.  “So what got those boys’ father, then?”

 

“He was a fucking drunk,” Martin says.  “Or close to it.  Maybe the spirit did get him, maybe he just fell, maybe it was both.  But we found him with a flask and he had a smell.  You don’t do that.  You don’t.  And he was alone—You don’t do that either.  Especially not for something like this.  You can go alone to a grave, go digging, but you don’t go to a site.”

 

Martin puts his gun down, apparently deciding _fuck it._   “In fact, John Winchester—everyone knows it, and I don’t care that he’s dead.  Everyone knows he was an asshole, and while yeah, he was a great hunter, he wasn’t popular.  Apparently he used to be a Marine?  Well whatever, he left people behind.  He used people.  He was after something, something big, and—”

 

“ _Enough_.  Martin.  Stop disrespecting—” 

 

“No, shit.  That asshole knew we were in town, same goddamned motel—We _offered_ to help even with his reputation, and he held back—” Martin is looking off now, not as his mother or anywhere else in particular, just off in the corner, nothing there to see. 

 

Now there’s the truth, Martin’s hung himself on it.  Guilt.  “He held back, and you found him.  But you can’t help someone who refuses to be helped.  Not easy.  That’s not on you.”  Frank says it careful.  Patronizing is the wrong fucking move, so he says it like he’s figuring it out, like he’s understanding—“But feels like it anyway.”

 

“It shouldn’t.”  Stella’s voice is hard, but quiet.  She’s looking around the room, towards the windows, back at Frank.  She flicks the safety, puts her shotgun down.  “Goddammit.”

 

“What’s in that journal, ma’am?  What don’t you want them to see?” Frank asks it just as quiet.

 

“That son of a bitch, he has so much information in it.  But he’s also—some things, they are better left alone.  Those are _children._ Children.  Yes, of course it’s valuable—full of information, good stuff, some of it.  But it’s not why we kept it—a photocopy is enough if we cared about that.”  Stella rounds the bed, and puts her hands on her hips, then drops them, restless. 

 

She only comes up the Frank’s chin, but she squares her shoulders and finishes, “We kept it because those boys don’t have a chance.  Especially not Dean.  Tell me he’s not going down this path.  You barely know them, we just met him.  But can you tell me that?”  She points her finger, and there’s a shine to her eyes.

 

“No, I can’t.  But I also think he’s old enough and smart enough to decide for himself.  And taking a young man—who takes care of his brother, who’s been the man of his house when his father’s been gone—taking the words of his father away from him and lying about it?  That’s wrong.  You know it.”  Frank shuts his mouth, stops it from going on too thick. 

 

“Sometimes doing the wrong thing is worth it,” Stella says. 

 

“You’re taking their choices.  Lies grow.  You may just be forcing him to go redo all that research his father’s done.  Now I’m through with this.  You know you shouldn’t.  Both of you do.  Give it over.  Be done with this.  It’s not your responsibility.”  Frank’s only half done with those words, but Martin’s already moving back towards the toilet.

 

“It’s not yours,” Stella tells him.

 

“No shit.” Frank agrees. 

 

Then Martin’s back.  The journal’s in a big zip-seal bag, thick and leather bound, pieces of paper stuck in it, stuck out of it.  Martin hands it over around his mother.

 

“The boys have our number.  We are sorry.  Tell them whatever, I mean—you’re going to anyway.”  Martin doesn’t look him in the eye, looking at his forehead instead, when he says that.

 

“Yeah.” Frank agrees, again. 

 

Stella doesn’t say anything.  Frank goes to the door, opens it.  Dean’s standing right outside, and from the look of his face, may have been there the whole time.  Goddammit.  Sammy’s at the corner, playing look out. 

 

Dean glares past Frank into the room.  “Thanks for all your help.” 

 

Dean’s the one who shuts the door, firm but not a slam, but not before Frank sees Martin’s face start to fall, Stella’s head bow slightly.

 

“Thanks,” Dean takes the journal, nearly reverent and with an entirely different tone.  “This—it’s important.  You’re right.  It’s Dad’s words.  No matter what scary shit he was hunting down about—Mom.”

 

For a split second, Frank wonders if Stella was right.

 

~~~~

 

The cremation site is off in the woods, but Stella gave good instructions out to it.  Frank waits at the car beside the road while the boys go and say their goodbyes.  When they return, Sammy's been crying again, and Dean looks hard and heartbroken. 

 

For lack of better plans, they drop off the rental and Dean drives them back to New York in the Impala.  She rumbles just like Frank knew she would, like the muscle cars Frank coveted as a kid.  Dean parks her in the garage under Frank's building, and they all head upstairs. Sammy hasn't said much since they got in the Impala, and Frank wonders how many times he's ridden in silence in that back seat.  Once in Frank's apartment, Sammy's clearly had enough, and Frank lets him lay down on Frank's own bed in the back.  The bed's not huge, but the brothers can share if they sleep close.  Tonight, Frank'll take the couch. 

 

Once Sammy's out, Dean sits at the little kitchen table.  

 

"Can I have something to drink?"  Dean asks him, and he doesn't mean juice. 

 

"Hell," Frank says.  "Okay.  Don't make it a habit."  He gets up to get the scotch from the freezer, pours a little for Dean and a little for himself.  Normally, he does not drink.  It doesn't help the dreams at all and the numb oblivion of it is too tempting.  Normally, he wouldn't give a kid Dean's age anything, either, but his dad just died.  No funeral.  Just a goodbye that came too late; their last conversation probably the fight Frank had overheard. It's a shitty way for things to happen. 

 

Dean drinks in a way that shows Frank just how comfortable with it he is, and Frank feels, again, posthumous disapproval for John Winchester. 

 

"I guess we'll go," Dean says.  "Tomorrow.  Get our stuff and—go somewhere.  Put Sammy in school." "You gonna keep hunting?  Dragging Sammy from place to place?" 

 

Dean's face looks torn and unhappy. His eyes drift to his bag, where Frank knows the journal is. Dean hadn't let Sammy read it, which had resulted in Sammy yelling, then falling into an angry sulk in the backseat.  Frank hadn't needed to get involved; Dean's got it. 

 

"I don't know what to do, man," Dean says, admitting it like they're in church.  "I can't just leave Sammy." 

 

"You can't," Frank tells him.  "You and him, you're all you've got that really matters."  Frank thinks about Lisa, Frankie, Maria.  "You know why I did what I did?"

 

"For your family," Dean says. 

 

"Yeah.  'Cause they were taken from me.  All of them.  I got nothin' anymore.  But if any of them had lived—if my little girl was alive, if my boy was alive—"  Frank shakes his head, feeling raw, but knowing it needs to be said.  "Vengeance is one thing, Dean, but if it takes you away from what really matters, you lost already." 

 

If Dean hears any criticism of his father, Dean doesn't let on; maybe can't, not yet.  But tears start rolling from Dean's eyes.  "Sammy deserves better," he finally says, a little broken.  "He ain't never known a home, Frank, I just.  I just want, I just want to take _care_ of him, he's so smart." 

 

Frank looks at this kid, this kid with the whole world settled across his shoulders.  Hears himself saying, "You two can stay here, until you get something worked out.  No need to make a decision right now.  Stay until Christmas, maybe, let Sammy finish the semester." 

 

"Yeah," Dean says, and he sounds _relieved_.  "Yeah, okay.  I think—I think I'm gonna go to bed."  Frank nods, watches him go.  Dean's bunking down with Sammy for the next little while.  Frank, he remembers he'd planned to go out—but like he'd told Dean, there's more important things.   

 

Frank settles on the couch with some guns to clean and keeps watch. 


	3. Chapter 3

Sammy insists on going to school the next day, so Dean takes him on the train. Frank goes grocery shopping while they're out, picks up a few other things the boys might need.  When Dean comes in, Frank takes him out to a shooting range and plugs away at targets with him. The kid's got great aim, great trigger discipline, handles himself well.  Frank sets harder targets for him and watches him work to get closer and closer to hitting it.  He can see the kid's self-criticism starting to spin up, and Frank cuts it off at the pass, tells him what he did right and gives calm pointers on how to improve.  Dean doesn't exactly warm to it, but he nods and takes it seriously.  They'll start from there. 

 

Jesus, but Frank has got no idea what he's doing. 

 

He and Dean go together to pick up Sammy from school.  Sammy looks a little surprised; he waves goodbye to his friends and joins them on the sidewalk.  Frank walks a little behind the boys, watching Sammy bump into Dean sometimes; watching Dean watch for threats and dangers while Sammy talks about his day. Sammy's not as animated as Frank's seen him in the past. 

 

That night, with the groceries Frank bought, Dean cooks. It's spaghetti and meatballs, and it tastes _nothing_ like Lisa's, and so that's alright.  They sit down at the table together. Sammy drinks a big glass of milk while he eats. 

 

"Dean says we're staying here through Christmas," Sammy says, poking at his last meatball. 

 

"You're welcome to," Frank says, then, tries again.  "I'd—like to have you both here." 

 

Dean looks surprised by that, but he covers it up quick.  Sammy nods.  He's swinging his feet under the table. "Thanks," Sammy says.  "I'll wash the dishes, okay?  Since you cooked."  The last is to Dean. 

 

"Naw, man, you've got homework." 

 

"I already did it at school.  It's okay." 

 

So that's how Dean and Frank end up sitting on the couch, watching an episode of Star Trek while Sammy washes the dishes.  The apartment had come furnished, which is why there was a TV at all, but it's fine now because watching the TV keeps Frank from having to come up with something to say.   

Sammy finishes up, comes and sits between them, leans against his brother.

 

It's the start of a routine.  The next couple of days are like this, and the stress of acting like he's an adult who's got his act together keeps Frank from needing to go plug any bullets in anybody.  Then, on Saturday, he gets an e-mail from Karen. 

 

_Can I come over?_ she asks.  _It's personal_.

 

Frank sits back at his little way-too-rugged laptop— _You could drop this out of a plane, but don’t think I’m saying use it to block a bullet, I mean, not on purpose.  Uh.  God, that wasn’t really supposed to be a joke, but—_ with its built in updating anti-spook shit, courtesy of the spook he knows.  Email is easier than flowers and haunting. 

 

How does she know where he lives?  Or is that the question, trust?  Or going on old info?  He’s not going to send his address back through the wires, safe or not, so instead he sends back a location.  Diner at least, not some shitty freezing cold pier for once.  As a show of some trust though, lets it be in Queens—not that Queens isn’t huge.  Asks a time.  Today?  Can do. 

 

It may be Saturday, but the boys are going through a short list of names and calling, leaving messages.  At least Dean is, though Sammy’s listening.  The door’s cracked, and Dean’s voice is mostly steady, though he clears his throat usually before dialing the burner they peeled out of the package yesterday: “Pastor Jim, we needed to let you know—”

 

Frank decided to tune it out after that, not listening as much as observing.  They got someone who they talked with for a while, and it sounds like things are going okay.  Good time to duck out, probably.

 

Karen must get email on her phone, because he’s got an answer by the time he’s checked his milk-run guns.  _An hour’s good for me._

 

_You got it._ He sends back.  Along with his new burner number, too.  The boys picked up a spare for him.  They didn’t talk about it, just handed it to him.  Sammy looked proud, so Frank just said thanks, and that was that.  Hell, it was smart.  Whatever else it might be, it was that. 

 

Frank makes a little noise, in the kitchen area, getting a swig of a half-empty water bottle and eyeballing the fridge.  Eggs.  Milk.  Literally a milk run too, okay.  He cocks his head and listens—room’s quiet, then okay, Sammy’s saying something.

 

Probably fine, so Frank goes, knocks the frame.  “Going to go out for a bit, get some groceries.  Meet a friend.”

 

Silence answers for a few seconds, then it’s Sammy opening the door, looking up at him.  His eyes are a little red rimmed, but his expression is steady.  Determined. “What kind of friend?”

 

“Sammy—” Dean’s already saying.  His eyes are mostly clear, but the line of his shoulders is rigid, tense.

 

“I’m just asking!”

 

“It’s rude.”

 

“It’s not rude.  It’s just a question,” Sammy argues.  He sticks his chin out, a gesture that reminds Frank of Frankie so much it sort of jabs him right in between the ribs.

 

Frank’s got to decide how to answer it, and settles on—“It’s all right.”  That first.  Before Dean finishes drawing in that hard breath he was taking, filling up his ribs and getting even more rattled.  The kid who drew down on a goddamned ghost with a grin on his face.

 

Frank keeps going, cause that can’t stand.  “She’s a damn good friend, brave.  Reporter.  She writes about corrupt assholes, does what she can.  Sometimes too much.  Google her if you want—Karen Page.  She wants to meet, so I’m going to go.  And get groceries.”

 

“Really?” Dean blurts, and he looks like he wishes he could grab the word and stuff it back in his mouth. 

 

Sammy grins, challenging.  “I’m _going to_ google her.”

 

Frank really doesn’t understand their reactions, then he realizes that maybe, just maybe telling them that he’s heading out—basic human _I live with people_ decency combined with _I might go missing_ sensibility—is somehow a big deal.  It shouldn’t be.  Goddamn.  Keeps that off his face though, and grins instead.  “Do that.”

 

“Is she pretty?” Dean asks.  He grins, head ducked, looks his age.

 

“That too,” Frank admits.  Hell, blind men (at least one) know that.  But to call Karen Page pretty is missing the point of Karen Page.

 

Dean grins a little wider though.  He taps the burner phone against his leg, and sorta waves his other hand.  “Dude, stop talking to us, go meet her.  Should uh, we expect you back before a certain time?”

 

Practical question, though Sammy looks uncomfortable. 

 

“I’ll text if it’s going to be more than three hours.  Might grab coffee or something.  Good thought.”  Frank says. 

 

It might be trouble, and he’ll know soon enough.  He can spare the time to warn them, stay put, run.  Christ, it better not be the last one.  But Karen wouldn’t bring shit down on his head.  She proved that.  He’s more likely to dive in front of something for her while she tells him to get the hell out of the way.

 

“Got it,” Dean says.  “You better get coffee.”

 

“ _Dean._ Not everyone is—”  Sammy’s face has gone all red. 

 

Dean starts laughing.  “I’m joking!  But hey, what are you saying about me, are you saying _I’m_ —”

 

“I think I’m going to let you two argue that one,” Frank says, holding up a hand, and backing out. 

 

“That’s smart!” Sammy chirrups at him.  Dean is laughing again.  It’s a good way to head out, locking the door behind him.  Was easy to put on the quick weapons, since this is armed-civilian style gear, hood up, cool day. 

 

They’re good kids.  Don’t deserve what’s happened to them, or knowing so much, flinching—but that’s why Frank needs to make sure he’s careful with where he lives, more than before.  Keeping things clear.  So he goes, checks the diner just in case.  Gives it a good look. But when it comes right down to it, there’s always something to miss.  With about fifteen left, he heads in and trusts Karen, trusts himself.  Takes a back booth with long sight of windows, near the back exit.

 

Karen’s striding up barely three minutes later, from the direction of the subway stop.  Her heels are hitting the pavement like she could walk through anything, and her hair’s tucked behind her ears, streaming long down her back.  It’s catching the wind along with the back of her unbuttoned coat, and somehow she looks a little bit like a Valkyrie in a wrap dress.

Pretty don’t cover it. 

 

She doesn’t look particularly happy, though, but she’s not checking behind her.  She is, though, checking her phone and looking sharp in the windows.  She scans and don’t see him—Frank knows the glare makes it hard, which was not on purpose on his part.  Just the mid-afternoon slant of light.

 

Karen doesn’t miss a beat, just adjusts her purse on her shoulder and comes in, pauses at the door to do a sweep—and then sees him.  Frank doesn’t feel like a traitor anymore when he feels the odd flutter in his chest, but he knows—he knows that’s just a side effect.  It’s not happening, it shouldn’t, the end.  Karen smiles though, a reflex, relief, and heads his way.  He gives her a small smile back, quick, and the waitress is already heading over to offer coffee, since it’s otherwise slow business.

 

“Hey,” Karen says.  She looks at him, checks him over.  His hands are on the table, and she takes a longer look at them—probably seeing how his knuckles aren’t split, the state of his nails.  All kinds of things.  She’s put her purse down and accepted the coffee, so.  Good sign.

 

“Hey yourself,” Frank says back.  “Look like you’re ready to conquer the world.”

 

“Just my corner of it,” Karen replies, and she leans forward while tilting her head back to laugh. 

 

And then they talk about nothing for nearly half an hour.  It’s weird and good, and Frank don’t know what the hell to make of it, except that he’s half done with his eggs before he makes himself ask, “I know you didn’t just want to shoot all this shit, but I got to say—it’s nice.”

 

Karen sighs a little, and tucks her hair behind her ear—it’s already there, but she does it again anyway.  “It is.  You know—you seem like you’re doing better?  That’s not—why I emailed.  But I want to say that.”

 

“Yeah, well.” Frank looks out the window.  He’s been keeping an eye out, despite the conversation.  He doesn’t lose that.  There’s no repeat cars, no reflections telling him someone’s watching.  No one out of place.  Just them right now. 

 

“Yeah.”  Karen nods.  She looks out too, sighs.  “Well.”  Presses her lips together, then goes on.  “I emailed because uh.  Matt—you know, he was gone for a while?  Maybe you don’t.  Anyway.  I thought—Never mind, that doesn’t matter.  What matters is that he heard you.  And he asked me about it.  I told him to mind his own business, and he said he wanted to.”

 

“But he couldn’t.  Cause he is pretty damn good at making things his business?” Frank asks.  Should’ve known—and maybe he suspected, deep down.  Then again, worse things.  “By the way—What you think always matters.” 

 

“I—” She pauses, smiles a little in a slow sort of way like she’s having to decide that’s the expression she’s picking.  “Thanks.”

 

“So what did he say, and what do you think then?” Frank asks, not wanting to make himself a hypocrite, for one, and for another, genuinely wanting her take.  Though he’s thinking it might be about to hurt.  Karen’s truths have a way of being a little bit too canny, having a hook in them.  Especially when she’s nice about it.

 

“He said, he heard you with a couple of kids?  Just in passing.  But you sounded familiar.  Like you were going somewhere.  And he tried to follow the car, sort of—figure out where you were staying.  Couldn’t find you.  The car, or the kids.  But there’s a lot of kids.  So, he wanted to know what I’d heard, which—nothing, obviously.  I don’t think you’d put kids in danger.  But I can’t help being curious—I just can’t help that.” Karen says it like it’s something he doesn’t know.

 

“Does he think I’m putting children in danger?  By what, giving them a ride someplace?” Frank’s got to ask though.  “Like by association?”  That, though—that would make sense. 

 

He figured Murdock had him pegged at one point, that Murdock would know better than to think he’d put kids in danger.  But then, he thought he had Murdock pegged too—naw, though.  The man was definitely a bigger mess than Frank. 

 

“Yeah, but—Frank.  You know that’s not an outrageous concern.  You’re being careful—because of course you are.  And Matt’s a worrier, at least—about some things.”  Karen picks up her toast, takes a bite and chews it.  Maybe to make herself shut up, maybe cause the toast is good.  Frank decides not to read too much into it.  Or try not to.

 

“You’re right—about me being careful.  I am.  And I notice that you’re not asking.  But you want to know,” Frank says.

 

“Of course.”  She signals for more coffee.  Says thanks, and Frank says the same when he gets his top-up.

 

He waits until they’re alone before answering, “They were neighbors.  Something happened, they needed help.  I looked out for them a little.  Good kids.”

 

“ . . . Needed help?”  Karen’s not paused, her coffee cup’s still rising steady to her lips, getting sipped, but her gaze is settled and sharp, measuring him.

 

Frank decides to give her something to chop up, dissect.  Nothing wrong with it, some of the truth.  She’s not going to write about it.  She’ll tell Murdock whatever, and she knows the man better—Frank’ll let her choose her ammo. 

 

“Their dad traveled a lot, left the older kid—out of school now—to watch his little brother.  The dad—John—he died on a job.  I took them out to where he’d been staying, helped them deal with that mess.  He’d slipped, fell bad, cracked his skull.”  Frank sort of gestures, like what the hell.  Because really, shitty way to go. 

 

Karen winces, sympathetic, and her face screws up a little.  She’s still dialed in though, waiting for him to finish.

 

So he decides to give her that, too. “They’re staying at my place for a little while now, while the older brother decides what he’s going to do.  Cause N-Y-C is x-spensive when you’re grieving on a junior mechanic’s pay.”

 

“That’s a lot for just—helping out.  Looking out a little,” Karen says.  Then she smiles.  “It worries the hell out of me, but I still think it’s really great.  I mean—I worry for you, not them.  It sounds like you like them.”

 

“Well—yeah, sure.  But they’re not stray puppies,” Frank says.  “They’ll go their own way soon enough.  I mean, such that they can.”

 

“They’ve got someone coming, someone to help them out?” Karen asks, after a pause.  It’s a natural question, or at least it comes out that way. 

 

“Maybe,” Frank just leaves that one.  “The older one, he takes good care of his brother.  If it weren’t for the city, he wouldn’t have any trouble at all.”  Which is not really true, but it’s true enough. 

 

“That’s good.  That’s important.  It sounds like—they’re really close,” Karen says.  She looks at her toast again, fiddles with it.  “And I know they’re not stray puppies, by the way— _really?”_  And then she’s looking up at him through her pale lashes and grinning, teasing.

 

Frank’s chuckling a little under his breath almost before he knows it.  “’It sounds like I like them’?  Come on, course I do.  But I can’t tell them what to do.”

 

“Do they ask?” Now there’s a question.

 

“Maybe.  Sometimes,” Frank admits, after having to take a moment.  “But—I’m not their father.”

 

“Naw, you’re their—Frank?  Or some other name?” Karen’s grin is small, but sharper for it.  Concentrated, maybe.

 

Which might be why he doesn’t phrase his answer better, and the truth comes out, “I’m just me.”

 

Karen blinks at him.  “Wow.”

 

“Yeah.  Well.”  Frank doesn’t see the point in trying to take it back now.

 

She doesn’t try to make him.  They spend another half hour, and it’s mostly about the stories Karen’s chased down, cause of course Frank reads them.  Some stories she hasn’t published, the ones that she’s still trying to get to pan out, teasing a few sources.  She’ll get ‘em.  None of it makes Frank want to help.  He wonders if she’s choosing what she says about him to Murdock, and thinks—maybe.  But that’s her prerogative.

 

Fall in the city, this time of year, and late afternoon means the sun’s going down.  It’s long enough that Frank says he’ll walk her to the subway station a block or two over—not cause she can’t handle herself, but because it’s one of those ones that has its entrance half covered up by new construction walkways, and heading down into it before the streetlights turn on?  Then again, there’s another station just up the other way—

 

“Not trying to macho it up here, or be.  Me,” Frank finds himself saying.  “You know?”

 

Karen gives him a look, then she _laughs_ at him.  “I’ll let you walk me, Frank.  Let me cover the tip for the waitress, we’ll call it even.”

 

“All right, all right—” Frank will agree to that, glad to. 

 

Outside, the air’s got a good chill to it, and people got their heads down.  It’s good, better that way.  Frank tries not to walk so much like an armed ex-Marine-and-then-some with a temper, but it’s an act, because he’s always himself, and so he sees a flash of something out of the corner of his eye, up—doesn’t look, but just says—“Left here, please.” Next corner, it’s a detour that’s not towards the subway station.

 

Karen goes, though it’s a tight side street, less people on it, and she glances at him for a second.  Adjusts her bag, where her weapon is.  “Tell me.”  It’s not a request.

 

Frank looks over at her, and believes she didn’t know.  Cause this is not the way she does things.  “Think you might’ve been followed by a uh, concerned party.  Was on the rooftop to my current seven o’clock.  Probably moved though.”

 

Karen’s nostrils flare and her hand drops from the opening of her bag to clutch the straps instead.  Irritation, not readiness.  “Frank, I did _not—_ ”

 

“Yeah, it’s—what it is.  Kind of creepy?”  Frank eyeballs upwards a little when he saw it.  “Offense sort of meant, Red.”

 

Karen huffs and rolls her eyes.  “Using me is something other than creepy.” 

 

Then she does a pivot, and strides ride into the nearest alley like that’s where she was going, not even a veer as much as a snap turn, and walks to the end of it.  Frank stands there for a second, then he follows her.  Of course he does.

 

“Get down here!” Karen hisses, head tilted back, at the roof.  “Just do it!  This is ridiculous!”

 

“Oh, Christ.” Frank says, almost under his breath.  This is not something he wants to see, but if Murdock followed her out her, then what’s to say he wouldn’t trail around until he followed Frank home?  That—that could not stand.  Not that Murdock would  do anything, but he might—hear something he shouldn’t.  That was not his damn business.

 

Karen crosses her arms, taps her foot.  “Come on, Matt.”

 

It’s dark in the alley, gloomy.  Frank looks up, looks back and forth.  Least they’re alone—and any idiot who wanted to give them hell would be in a world of hurt.  Still.  He can still see the street.  “Let’s go around the corner.  More cover.”  Get it over with.

 

“Fine,” Karen agrees.  Together, they walk around the corner, and it’s better.  Not a blind alley, but bricked-over windows, plenty of sky from the way the buildings don’t quite meet, and cover.  More to climb.

 

Frank’s checking their six, turns back, and there’s Murdock in his crazy horned body armor, landing with no sound.  Plain sight though, because he’s an idiot, but he’s really _not._

 

“I had to be sure,” are the first words out of Murdock’s mouth.

 

“Did you ask me so you could follow me?” Karen demands, all fire, hair flying behind her with how fast she gets up in his face.

 

He takes it, stands there.  Does turn his head slightly away, but it’s that head cock that gives him away to anyone who pays attention, not a deflection.  “No.  I followed you because I need to know where someone—someone like him, like you, Frank—where he is.”

 

Frank can’t help shaking his head, but he keeps his laugh in his chest.  Ridiculous.  What good is that going to even do?  Karen doesn’t even turn, she’s shaking her head too, but she’s not laughing.

 

“Bullshit.”  That’s all she says.  “Because that means you were going to follow him home after he finishes walking me to the subway station.  Or—you took off, tried to trace back to where he came from?  Cased the area?”

 

Murdock stands there, shifts his weight without actually moving much.  Keeping himself from settling.  “Karen—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

 

“But you did it.”

 

Frank keeps on keeping his mouth shut.

 

“Yeah, I guess that’s what I did.  And I’m not sorry for doing what I feel like I had to do.”  Murdock frowns, and waits for the hit.

 

Karen’s laugh lands like one, quick and hard.  “Okay.”

 

“Now what?” Frank cuts in.  She’s made her point, probably the continuation of one that Frank don’t even know about and has nothing to do with him at all.  But the fact remains—Murdock’s here for him, right now.  He is.

 

Karen looks over at Frank, steps back and not quite out of the way.  More like a mediator, or maybe a referee.  Boxing match.  Frank looked up Murdock at one point, while back. 

 

Murdock stands there, head still cocked, shoulders a little more bulled now.  Doesn’t say anything for a long few moments, then his mouth twitches just a little, one corner quirking downwards.  “I didn’t listen the whole time—It was rude.  When you were talking about other things.  I did case the area.”

 

“Were you sniffing for gunpowder or something?” Frank’s got to ask.  He’s got to.  He has no idea how the blind thing even works, what it is that Murdock has going on.  He has something.

 

“Among other things,” Murdock says.

 

Wait, seriously?  “Like what?”

 

“Explosives.  Ammo.”  He pauses, straightens his head.  “Blood.”

 

Hell, Murdock can smell _blood?_

 

“But you didn’t find anything—well.  Not mine, did you?” Frank asks, because he knows the answer.  Or he wouldn’t have been haunting the rooftops.  “Or—did you want me to see you?  That’s it, isn’t it?  Could’ve just taken the mask off, walked in to say hello.  Got yelled at a little, had a cup of coffee.  Too much for you?”

 

That’s not it.  That’s _not it._ Feels wrong.

 

“It’s a little noticeable, don’t you think?  Blind man crashing someone’s mid-afternoon coffee and eggs catchup date?” Murdock says.  And maybe he’s digging back. 

 

Means he’s feeling defensive.  Enough of that to go around. 

 

“What kind of crap is that, blind man bullshit?  Or are you just saying you’d be great cover, since you’re so noticeable?” Frank asks. 

 

“Really, Matt?” Karen says as well, eyebrows raised high.

 

“Lawyer and paralegal who worked your case—we were all photographed together, even I know that.  Now I’m not sure how remarkable you two _look,_ but it seems a little unwise,” Murdock presses, sarcasm thick.

 

“Naw, I’m not buying it.  Unless you’re just slipping, is that it?  Covering for losing your edge, getting seen?” Frank adds a little bit of a mocking in his tone, changing tactics.  Cause he knows—there’s something here.  Murdock let him see.  So why?  To talk, maybe, but now he’s not talking.

 

Karen’s frowning now, arms crossed.  Murdock’s frowning too, and he looks like he knows exactly what Frank’s doing.  But it still looks like he’s annoyed by the jab. 

 

“Yeah, sure.  That’s what it is,” Murdock says, deadpan.  “I wanted you to see me.” 

 

“Then this is some kind of distraction, what?  You waiting to ask your question, keeping us here, what is it?  You actually call the cops on me?  Naw, you wouldn’t do that.  Not with Karen here.  So get on with it—Just ask.  Get to it, Mu—”

 

“All _right,_ ” Murdock cuts him off.  Finally.  “Kids, Frank?”

 

“None of your damn business.” 

 

“You’re a _murderer._ ”  Murdock spits it out.

 

“I murdered the people who murdered my _family._ ” Frank’s not sure how or when he stepped up, but suddenly his field of vision is almost nothing but Murdock’s mask and the brick wall behind him.  Frank keeps his hands open, fists from forming, but he can feel the weapons on him, the zing of adrenaline.  Readiness mixing with that calm that puts him right in the moment.  Combat ready.  He doesn’t need to do that. 

 

Murdock holds his ground.  He clears his throat, and says the next thing so clear, it’s almost like he’s in the courtroom: “You’ve killed more people than that.  You slipped down from whatever moral high ground when you kept going, kept finding people to kill.  To murder _._ ”

 

“As opposed to what?  Putting on a mask, hiding my face?  Beating people bloody, hoping the system will get to it?  Half measures and conflicts of interest—from a lawyer.  The system makes criminals harder, stronger.  Or it breaks them into smaller pieces than they were before, and guess who puts those pieces back together?” Frank makes himself step back.  This isn’t the reason.  Or maybe it is.  Why—

 

“Sounds like the military.” Murdock quips.  Fucking quips. 

 

Karen looks surprised by that, and then looks suspicious as hell.  It’s a good clue, because she definitely knows Murdock better than he does.  Frank’s grateful she doesn’t say anything.  He wants some sense, but he just _doesn’t_ either.

 

Words start pouring out of Frank’s mouth, even though he knows he should keep it shut, knows he’s just been _goaded_ but he can’t _help it_ : “Yeah, it does.  The same military that takes young men and women who want college, want to serve, or who are just—Sure, let’s got there.  Who are great at fighting.  Have that instinct.

 

“You know the one, I know you do.  I’ve seen you take people apart with your bare hands—That military.  It takes us.  Gives us an opportunity to be our best selves, and then uses us and spits us back out.  But what’s the real problem there?  It’s a question with a hundred damn answers, and _none of them_ you’re qualified to talk about,” Frank finds himself closing in again, the world focusing too much.  It’s a bad idea.  Bad idea.

 

“There you go, trying to claim the high ground.”  Murdock is trying to piss him off.  That’s his objective. 

 

Frank’s trying to piss him off, too, so hey.  Maybe it’s fair.  He shakes his head, though, tries to shake it off.  Because no—even with this fucking game of a conversation, he’s not going to claim that one.  Disarm the trap.  What’s the point with this? 

 

“No, you listen here.”  Frank’s voice feels rough, like he’s got to shove it out of his throat, but dammit.  Enough of this.  “The only moral high ground I _ever_ had was when I was with my family.  They were the—living for them was the only chance I ever had.  The military was something I could _do_ and _well._   It was my second family.  And my second family killed my first.”  Goddammit.  _Goddammit._

 

Frank lifts his chin, makes himself take a deep breath.  And he’s calm.  Or close to it.  “So—What’s your point.  Why are you trying to piss me off here?”

 

Then Murdock shoves him, and it goes downhill from there.  Frank was _not_ expecting that kind of bullshit, and Karen’s telling them to stop.  Murdock’s a blur, grappling, but the only thing that saves them from something worse is that Frank has enough presence of mind to not draw his k-bar, not go for his gun, and that’s— 

 

Frank goes for fast kills against skilled opponents, controls the battlefield.  He _doesn’t_ want to kill Murdock—this is not like before.  Murdock’s not in the way of his mission, his _need._ This time, cause of that, Frank’s just outmatched, plain truth, and while he busts his knuckles getting Murdock’s jaw, manages to sting his shoulder joint, box his ears even through the damn helmet, Frank’s the one who goes down. 

 

Murdock lands on his back, shoves the air out of his lungs.  Franks ends up on his stomach on the alley ground with Murdock’s knee on the back of his neck and an arm twisted up in a hold that will snap the hell out of his arm if he moves.  Frank considers moving, but he can’t breathe yet, and is fighting the caveman instinct to gasp air like an idiot until his diaphragm starts working again.

 

“You get the fuck off him _right now_.” Dean’s voice sounds ice cold.  From the sound of it, he’s standing at the place the alleys all meet.  Good cover, distance to see, multiple escape routes. 

 

And while Frank now _fucking gets_ what Murdock was trying to do, and he knows he should be pissed at being played—He can’t help busting with pride, a grin trying to fight its way onto his face.

 

"There's a baby pointing a gun at you," Karen says to Murdock, voice clipped and tense. 

 

"I can _tell_ ," Murdock hisses, but he eases up, off Frank's back.

 

Frank gets to his knees, then stands, still sore, breath still too shallow to properly talk.  He grunts a little, looks at Murdock.  Murdock doesn't look back—and Dean doesn't lower the gun.  Frank finally gets a good look at Dean—sees his stance, his trigger discipline, how his hand doesn't shake even a little.  He nods.   

 

"Thanks, kid," he says.  Nods again, once, deliberate.  Dean takes the signal and lowers the gun, though he doesn't put it away. 

 

"That Karen?" Dean asks, a little color in his cheeks, nodding towards Karen. 

 

"Yeah," Frank says, glancing at her, to see her looking tense and bright-eyed, _attentive_ , and he inhales again.  Remembers her pulling the wire out of a bomb on his say-so and—  "But you know that, since you were following me.  Sammy here?" 

 

Dean opens his mouth on what is perhaps a reflexive no, but there's a small scuffle, and Sammy, wearing his I-am-totally-a-kid disguise, steps around the mouth of the alley, and comes to stand by Frank.  Just walks right past Dean and looks at Murdock and Karen and then— 

 

Slips his hand into Frank's.

 

Jesus Christ. 

 

"Jesus Christ," Murdock mutters. 

 

"Hey, language," Karen scolds.  Then, to Frank, "What the _fuck_ are you doing here, Frank?" 

 

"He's watching out for us," Sammy answers for him, like it never occurred to him that his opinion might not be the one needed right now.  "What gives you the right to judge him, Mr. Devil?  You do the same thing he does but you don't go as far.  You'd still get a big prison sentence if you ever got caught." 

Frank looks down at Sammy, knowing there's surprise all over his own face, and not bothering to hide it.  He frees his hand to ruffle Sammy's hair, because fuck it, he's wanted to do that for days now.  Puts a hand on his shoulder. 

 

"Mr. Devil here doesn't do what I do," Frank tells Sammy.  "He's got his reasons for that.  See, Sammy, maybe his idea's better. He's still thinkin' people can change, can get, I dunno, find Jesus or something.  He's religious." 

 

"Act right or the devil's gonna getcha?" Dean asks.  He comes closer, close enough to look Murdock over, not close enough to be easily disarmed.  Smart. 

 

"People can always make a better choice," Murdock says, and he fucking believes it.  "Even you, Frank." 

 

"Naw," Frank says.  Cuts his eyes to Dean again, remembers the crusher, thinks—  "Well, okay, maybe."  Sees Dean flush—Dean gets it. 

 

"Jesus Christ," Karen says. 

 

"Language, Ms. Page," Murdock flirts at her, grinning, handsome even with half his face covered up, and Frank's eyes narrow a little, just a little, a micro-expression. 

 

Karen rolls her eyes.  "Something tells me these guys have heard worse." 

 

"Dean cusses all the time," Sammy chirps cheerfully. 

 

"You've got no business taking care of kids," Murdock says, low.  "And you know it." 

 

It aches.  It does.  He knows it.  Anything good in him was scraped out and paved over with hate and need for vengeance; he's thought of his heart as a landfill since he woke up in the hospital, his babies and his wife dead.  Frank nods, because it's true, even as Karen hisses, _Matt_ and the unhappiness in her voice would make lesser men ashamed. 

 

"I know it," Frank says, looking vaguely away from everybody, almost seeing his family on the other side of the alleyway.  "Hell, I wasn't a great dad.  There's a lot I'd take back.  But I haven't lied to these kids about who I am.  You wanna talk to them, maybe offer them something better—I ain't gonna stand in their way.  It's their choice.  Murdock, you—you grew up in the system, man.  You really think it's the best place?  You think it's better than family staying together?" 

 

Murdock doesn't answer.  Neither does Karen.  Frank rolls his shoulders.  "I'm gonna go over there, or something. Sammy, Dean—just answer whatever they want.  Okay?  You make your own choice.  My offer still stands." 

 

Frank walks away.  He squeezes Dean's shoulder on the way by, feels Dean's eyes watching him. 

Maybe it would be better, if they went to live with somebody else.  Somebody who had their shit together. 

 

Frank hunches against the brick wall, closer to the street, tries not to listen but hears anyway.  Just snatches of conversation, really—Dean saying he got the gun from his dad, and he's got a permit, what?  Quiet, Murdock asking a question Frank can't make out, and Dean's voice again, something about their dad leaving them while he went out of town on business; Frank keeping an eye out while he was gone.  It goes quiet for a little while, and when Dean's voice picks up again, it's backed up by Sammy, both of them talking about how Frank's letting them stay with him, that they _want to_ , Dean's looking for a job and Sammy's in school and— 

 

Karen, "That's enough, Matt." 

 

Frank starts to head back to them.  He's got his hands shoved in his pockets, thinks he needs to pick up a good coat for the boys.  What they've got isn't gonna cut it, not if winter breaks really cold. 

 

"Matt Murdock, huh?" Dean says, the little shit. 

 

"Ohhhhh," Sammy, grinning.  "You're a _lawyer_.  Wow, that'd be bad, if somebody found out you were Daredevil too."  His eyes go wide and guileless.  "You'd be _disbarred_." 

 

Frank doesn't bother hiding his own grin. 

 

Murdock huffs, almost a laugh.  "I guess we're on even footing here, Castle," Murdock says to him.   

 

"Meaning?" 

 

"I'll keep checking in," Murdock says.  "But they want to stay."   

 

"How about I check in instead?"  Karen says. 

 

"Why do either of you think you got a right to do that?"  Frank has to ask.  "I'm free and clear, in case you ain't figured it out." 

 

"Yeah, I heard about that," Murdock answers, dry.  "See you around." 

 

"Blind joke here," Dean mutters, but he watches Murdock launch himself onto a ladder, then up onto a roof, purses his lips.   

 

Sammy elbows Dean in the gut.  Now it's just Karen, Frank, and the boys, though Frank knows Murdock probably didn't go far.  Frank says, "We could meet again."  To Karen.  "I'd like that." 

 

Karen turns a pretty pink.  Frank's breath catches, just a little.  "Me, too."

 

Frank _ignores_ Dean and Sammy elbowing each other off to the side.  "Okay then," Frank says. 

 

"Okay."  Karen clears her throat, changes how she's standing.  "I'll get to the station myself—Um, yeah. Sammy, Dean—nice to meet you."  She walks past, clicking away. Frank turns to watch her go, sees her stop, and knows what she's gonna do.  He makes the choice to stand still, not to move, so when she comes back and kisses his cheek, he's prepared for it; it's just _Karen_ , no ghost of Maria hovering nearby.  He doesn't know how to feel about that. 

 

Once Karen's gone, Frank turns to Dean and Sammy. Sammy looks unrepentant, but Dean's hedging a little towards defensiveness.  John Winchester was such a bastard.  "How in the hell you followed me, I don't know," Frank says.   

 

"Cell phone GPS," Sammy tells him.   

 

Frank grunts, frowning.  Shrugs a shoulder.  "Well. Okay.  Still need milk.  Wanna hit the bodega with me?" 

 

That wasn't what Dean was expecting, but Sammy rolls with it, falling into step beside Frank, Dean a half step behind.  This'll do for now but—Frank's gonna make sure Dean isn't the odd man out, doubting like this.  Dean and Sammy are family; Frank's just gonna watch out for them while they need him to.  That’s all.

 

That’s it.


End file.
